Probitionate in Situ

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Twenty

2012-01-13T04:15:00.000-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

I don’t want you to think that Mai’s time in Toronto was all spent fucking. That is pretty much the case, but I don’t want you thinking that.

LOL

Seriously, we did leave the hotel room. As witnessed by the excursions to ice skate, to get pizza at midnight via the streetcar, as well as a movie here, a restaurant there.

Oh, and sex at the Winter Garden theatre.

Yeah.

You’re going to have to look that one up. Here’s a URL.

Now, the Winter Garden interlude requires its very own section in this tale. So while I’d love to tell you to take a pee-break, grab a drink, let the cat out, and when you come back, I’ll tell you all about Mai and I having our way with each other in a century-old theatre...

...I think I’m going to leave that for another time.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Ninteen

2012-01-12T04:07:00.014-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

“You drained my bladder!” she says to me a long while later. Smearing her pussy, her ass all down my torso, she pins herself on my cock, but only just, and then decides to do some teasing of her own.

“I did.”

“Could you suck it out of me? My pee? You know, from my- What do they call it...?”

“Your urethra.”

“Yeah!” she says, bobbing up and down on my erection. Well, to be precise, she’s sliding back and forth, because she’s flat on my chest.

“Yeah!” I mimic, and push her down all the way, so I’m in her to the max.

I watch her face crumble, watch how the gesture affects her, watch her eyes squeeze down into nothing...then watch her features expand, watch her moxie rise, watch her as she proceeds to fuck me.

“I wish I could squirt. I’d love to have you suck my cum out of me. Out of my urethra...”

“We could work on that.”

“Ha!” she laughs. “Now you’re telling me you can teach me how to squirt?”

“Gush,” actually.

“Hmm...”

“In the meantime, want to hear what the part of you is that charms me the most?”

“My titties!” she says, shaking them after having gotten up into a pushup position.

“No.”

“My eyes.”

“No.”

“My lips?” she asks. “What about my pussy...?”

“I am utterly and completely charmed by your stain.”

“My what...?!?”

“Your stain.”

“Where?!?”

“It takes up most of your undercarriage.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Your colouring is different ‘down there’. And I’m not talking about your pussy. I’m not talking about your pussylips. I’m talking about your stain down below. The hue of your skin.”

“My stain.”

“Your stain.”

“You love my stain.”

“I’m beguiled, bestotted by your stain.”

“You’re insane.”

“Just insane enough,” I confess, knuckling her nipples, making her eyelids flutter. “You do know what I’m talking about.”

“Not really!”

“Everyone’s undercarriage is shaded a little differently than other parts of their bodies.”

“Darker.”

“Yes. But depending on the light, yours appears inky.”

“Inky.”

“Yeah. It’s as if- It’s as if you grew bush all over, and you shave, but the ‘shadow’ remains.”

“So it appears ‘inky’.”

“Yes.”

“On my ‘undercarriage’.”

“Yes.”

“So I have a ‘stain’.”

“Yes. And the stain is what charms me the most about you. But you don’t believe me.”

“No.”

“About which part?”

“I’m not sure I believe you about this ‘stain’, but I definitely don’t believe you that- No, I don’t want to be believe you that the thing you find most charming about me is my stained undercarriage.”

“I never said I wasn’t quirky.”

“That’s true.”

“Would you like to see what I see? When I’m adoring your pussy, when I’m munching on your ass...?”

“Sure. Show me my stain.”

I scoot off the bed and go to my luggage. From my toilet kit, I retrieve a small mirror. I bring it back to the bed, where Mai’s already reaching out for it. “Uh-huh... This is my presentation, if you don’t mind...”

She pouts. “Fine. How do you want to do this?”

“I’m not sure we can do it all here,” I say, pushing her back onto the mattress. “But let’s give it a go,” I say, arranging her so that I can place the mirror just so... “Can you see?”

“No. Tilt it up. No, not that much. OK, now I can-”

I look over at Mai’s face. “I don’t see anything.”

“Here,” I say, running my finger around a large part of her inner thigh. “And here.”

“That’s not a ‘stain’! That’s-” She takes a closer look.

And then slides off the bed, steals the mirror, and sprints for the bathroom. “I want to see this properly.”

When I get in there, Mai’s going through contortions. Rearranging herself this way, then that, bending over, looking backwards, both at once... “OK. I see what you mean,” she says, still going through some gymnastics.

“It’s charming.”

“I don’t know why I’ve never noticed it before.”

“You weren’t looking.”

“It’s noticeable.”

“Only if you’re looking.”

“And you say it appears darker sometimes?”

“Yes,” I say, picking her up under the arms, and plonking her on the counter. Then I kneel, place her heels on my shoulders...and I begin to kiss said ‘stain’.

“You’re a little bit barmy,” she sighs, reacting to my touch. “But that barminess has you ‘charmed’ by my discolouration.”

I gaze up at her, and watch her reaction as I nibble on her ‘pastry’.

“You keep doing that, and I won’t care if you’re out of your head entirely.”

“Head, huh...?”

She watches me some more. “May I have all three...?” she asks quietly.

“You desire ‘The Great Triumvirate’?”

“Please.”

“Oral sex...” I begin, lapping away while my silence indicates the need for her to complete the recitation.

“Then vaginal...” she continues. “Then anal.”

“You’re very demanding.”

“I know. Forgive me...?”

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Eighteen

2012-01-11T04:00:00.002-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

I’m as good as my word.

I make love to Mai throughout the night, intermittently-but-effectively, inducing more than a handful of orgasms along the way.

So those sites you’ve seen online, the ones where they have some sleeping gal fucked? Been there, done that.

And I’ll tell ya; there’s something very special about a woman climaxing while asleep. The process has its own characteristics, its own profile.

Not that any of them were alike.

I took her once from behind, spooning her, and when she came, it was like a tantrum. And then she was lost to unconsciousness once more.

I took her while she was on her back. Almost imperceptibly driving in and out of her. When she came, it was one elongated shiver.

On her belly, I hardly touched her. It was just my cock in her cunt, tenderly pushing in and out. When she came, she yelled into her pillow.

I masturbated her to orgasm. When she came, she mumbled a paragraph’s worth of declaratives.

I ate her to climax. When she came, she was all melodic moans and groans.

The final time was... Well, it was admittedly a little unusual: rolling onto my back, with her in my arms, her back to my chest, I fucked her with her sprawled out, facing the ceiling. And when she came, I came too, then settled in for some rest of my own.

I awake to a combination of sounds and sensations.

The sounds are Mai licking her fingers.

The sensations are her scrounging around at her pussy...where my limp cock is stuck...and removing what’s left of my deposit.

“You owe me.”

She stops, and considers my comment. “What do you want?” comes her whisper, the delivery of which is enough to make my heart flutter a bit.

“I want you to sit on my face,” I tell her. “I want you to ride my mouth. I want you to have your way with me.”

“Mmm...” she trills, shimmying. “Let me go pee, first.”

I grasp her arm. “No. Don’t use the toilet.”

Once more, she considers. “You’re not serious.”

“You owe me.”

Sliding off me...leaving my cock behind...she gets onto her knees and in a crouch, she stares at me. “You’re kinky,” she says. “I didn’t know you were into kink...”

I say nothing. I just wait.

And so Mai crawls closer, clambering up, mounting my face.

And I wait.

A minute on, she slumps. “I can’t! I can’t do it! I can’t pee on demand! And not into your mouth!”

I wait.

And she steps up to the plate once more.

I wait.

I wait what seems five minutes.

Until at last, there’s a trickle into my open mouth, a shudder from Mai, and then a stream of very warm, very tinny liquid onto my tongue, splashing against my cheeks and streaming down the back of my throat.

I drink for what seems another five minutes. Gulping constantly. Swallowing it all.

Finally...after a dénouement that seems almost as protracted as the prologue, Mai shivers once again...and making a ‘V’ with her fingers, pushes her clit front-and-centre, swabbing it over my lips. “Eat me...”

I go her one better: I make a bowling ball of her.

My mouth consuming her proffered clitoris, my thumb strokes her vaginal entrance, teasing her by way of labia and vulva and very slick aperture, while my fingers ...my two longest ones...probe her rectum.

“Fuck-a-duck, Carruthers!” she groans, and bears down on me all the more.

Now, while her pussy is slick...it’s not just ‘lubrication’, remember, there’s a load of me oozing out of her...her asshole is dry. So I don’t just jam my digits home. I worm around a bit, prodding her with a little bit of patience here, a little bit of teasing, there.

“Yes!” she growls. “Suck that clit!”

I do.

And I also press home with my thumb, pushing on, its length and breadth clearly just the ticket for her vaginal needs this morning.

“Here,” she whispers, and shoves my fingers up her ass.

She flinches...clenches...clenches in staccato form...and then begins fucking my digits.

And my thumb.

And my mouth.

“A girl could get used to this...”

I grin at her comment...but keep doing what I’m doing.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Seventeen

2012-01-10T04:22:00.000-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

I used to live in Toronto. In The Beaches. It’s a community to the east. Down by Lake Ontario.

One of its foundations is the 501 streetcar. It runs right to the very margent of The Beaches, to Neville Park, where it turns around.

There was a pizza joint there I used to go to a lot. The pizza wasn’t ‘that’ good, but it became part of my routine, my life, so I guess it got jacked-up in status by that fact.

So that’s where we’re going. At 11:45 at night.

Mai and I sit at the back of the ‘red rocket’. With its expansive windows, the wraparound glass at the vehicle’s ‘caboose’. It’s a mid-week night, so there’s not a lot of activity; the streetcar’s mostly empty.

“This is a ‘date’, isn’t it?” Mai asks.

“I’m paying you,” I laugh. “I hardly think that it qualifies as a ‘date’.”

“Okaaaay,” she whines, pinching my thigh, “maybe we could pretend that it’s a ‘date’.”

“I’m glad you said ‘Yes’ when I asked you out on this date,” I tell her.

“That’s better.”

We each stare at the sights, as we head east, the rumbling of the wheels counter-pointed by the rising buzz of our progress, then the descending burr of us slowing down to stop.

    “What are the chances I could get a hummer on a first date, anyway...?”


    It’s interesting how the weather can play on your appetite.
    That, and scads of sex.

“Where do you put it?” I ask Mai after her third piece. We’ve chosen to stand at the bar at the front window, once again sight-seeing. And there’s a surprising amount to see this time of night in this pedestrian’s enclave.

“On my titties,” she replies, poking her tongue out at me. “So you won’t be complaining, will you...?”

I go close to her, putting my free hand against her lower back and bussing a portion of her ear. “When we get back to the hotel...”

“Yes...?”

“I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Mm-hmm...?”

“I’m going to make languid love to you.”

She nods, keep munching on her slice. “Are you now...?”

“Yes, I am. I’m going to gently and adoringly –and mindful of your full belly– make love to you until you drift off into a blissful somnambulance, your journey lubricated by orgasmic transcendence.”

“I can let you do that.”

“Yippee!”

“With one condition.”

“Carry on,” I say, kissing her cheek, the tip of her nose...then chastely, her mouth.

“Promise me that you’ll keep making me come throughout the night.”

“While you’re asleep.”

“While I’m asleep,” she says, her complexion deepening in the moment; I can tell that if she could, Mai would take me. Here. Now. At this bar, in this storefront window. “Will you do that?”

“You’re asking me to not go to sleep so that I can service you.”

“No...” she says, turning to face me. “I’m asking you to service me through the night. But you can take cat-naps.” She pulls back to nibble on her crust. “But maybe you don’t fancy me enough to do that...”

“Mai...”

“Callum...”

“How much am I paying you to be here?”

“Lots,” she grins innocently. “Lots and lots and lots.”

It’s my turn to nod. “Deal,” I tell her, returning to my own pizza.

“Yippee...”

She’s dead tired when we get back.

Part of this is the time-change, part is the fresh air she’s been out in, part of it is the skating, the walking, the having outdoors-fun.

And yeah; part of it is the sex we’ve been engaged in.

So she sits in the bathroom, on the toilet, an upright sphinx, while I remove her makeup.

She says nothing.

I say nothing.

It’s just me returning her to her natural state, and Mai...peeing.

“Don’t wipe,” I tell her.

Her eyes open.

“I’m going to spend some time eating you. I like the taste of your urine.”

She just stares.

I lead her to the bed, peeling off her robe as she goes, so that when she’s arrived, she’s naked.

Mai climbs up onto the king-size playground, adjusts the pillows, lies down...grabs another pillow and shoves it under her rump, and closes her eyes. “Good night, Lover...”

I take in the sight of her...and feel myself harden.

“Don’t forget your promise,” she adds, already sounding dopey.

I crawl to her. Then begin kissing her legs. Her knees, her thighs.

“I’m not going to be able to sleep if you’re tickling me.”

“You’re right,” I murmur, pushing my beard up to her crotch, scratching her all the way.

“Stop it!” she laughs.

“A friend’s girlfriend had a name for his beard.”

She waits.

“His ‘womb-broom’.”

There’s a slight delay, then Mai is buckled-up with laughter, holding her tummy...

...until I plant my face between her thighs and proceed to make love to her with my mouth.

“Oh... Oh, blimey... No sleep for me for a while... Goddamn, I love the way you give head...”

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Sixteen

2012-01-09T04:41:00.022-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

It’s dusk. So the sky is darkening. From deep-azure through the shadings that lead to black. The lights have been on in the square for a couple of hours. The strung ones along the fifteen foot high concrete border that frames the rink, along its base, as well as on the trio of arcs that reach from one side of the structure to the other.

To the east, the clock tower of Old City Hall. Its faces are illuminated brightly, while the main structure is adorned in red and green; it looks like a perfectly-wrapped present, except it’s courtesy of light and not paper.

All around us, the bright panes of office towers, hotels, and the bulk of City Hall itself.

Glistening, sparkling faeryish brilliance combines with the chill, with the piped-in music, with the laughing, the talking, the chattering...and the slicing-and-dicing of steel-on-ice, and we’re in a winter-wonderland.

None of this is lost on Mai. She’s a kid. A kid at Christmas. Shining eyes, grin as big as anything, and energy coming off her like sparks.

Only she’s not a kid.

She’s so not a kid in that outfit, and with those looks that even doing the gangly fawn thing, moving ungainfully, she’s attracting stare after stare, ogle after ogle.

Not that she notices.

Because she absolutely, positively doesn’t.

She’s having too much fun.

“You’ve never skated.”

Shaking her head, she’s a mass of frantic giggles. “Yes, I mean! I’ve skated before. But it was years ago. And I fell down a lot.”

“You haven’t fallen yet.”

“Because you’re here.”

I keep skating us backwards, all the way down to the end. Where I stop. “Let’s try doing it side-by-side.”

“Yippee!” she squeals. “We’re gonna spoon!”

“Such a letch,” I mutter, pulling her to me so that her hip is against mine.

“I have a secret,” she whispers, nuzzling up against me, her cold cheek against my beard. “My pussy’s getting all chilled.”

“Did you forget to put on some panties?”

“I didn’t ‘forget’ anything...”

I look her plainly in the face. And find a catch in my throat. I’m so utterly bedazzled by her.

So I kiss her.

She rides me.

She sits high above me and she rides me.

But it didn’t begin here.

It began once we got into our hotel room.

It began when she ran to the couch, got herself propped up against it, and waggled her ass at me.

It began when I went to her, when I placed my hand on her hip, when she peered back at me, still saying nothing, when I tugged down her leggings...

...and when I pushed into her, into her chilled pussy, her slippery, slideful pussy, and started fucking her.

But here, now, a load of my scooge providing even more lubrication than her own effluvia has, she rides me.

Mai’s face is still flushed. It’s a combination of the frosty outdoor air and the exertion of our couch-scene. It adds a superlative glow to her features.

Her nipples are rock-hard.

And her skirt’s still on.

And she rides me.

“Good day?” I ask, enjoying the show.

“I’m getting my pussy properly fucked,” she replies. “I already have a load of my lover inside me, and I’m going to milk him for another.”

“You are, are you?”

“He took me ice skating today.”

“That sounds nice.”

“He skated with me! All around this beautiful outdoor rink!”

“Did he get funny with you?”

She pulls a face.

“You know; try to cop a feel? Pinch your ass?”

“No!”

“Why do you say that so defensively?”

“Because that’s not who he is! He’s a gentleman.”

“So he wouldn’t try to cop a feel or pinch your ass?”

“No!” she says, falling down so that her hands are on either side of my head, and she’s barely apart from me, her face hovering. “Not there. It was too... Too nice.”

“Oh.”

“My lover knows what’s appropriate,” she adds. “He knows what I-”

She stops.

And begins shaking her head.

And riding me harder.

“What...?”

“You’re doing it, aren’t you?” she asks, and as she does, she makes it so that she can feed me a breast.

Naturally, I suckle.

“You’re making me fall for you, you bastard...”

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Fifteen

2012-01-08T04:25:00.011-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

“What do you like?” I ask after a long spell of contentment on her part.

“Don’t be a bastard!” she laughs. “I like it all.”

“So you’re OK with this?” Here, I feather slurps all around the stem of her clit before taking the bud into my mouth...sucking hard as if a bellows...then releasing the morsel, and returning to worrying the surrounding skin.

“I need to finger my asshole,” is her answer, and so I watch as her hand appears under her, her middle digit swab up some of her greasy effluvia, then poke past her rubbery ring of a sphincter...and plunge deep. Very deep.

“Nice!” I quip, sliding my own fingers into her vaginal canal...and searching out what’s on the other side of a wall of a couple of membranes. “Hello!” I eventually say, pressing against her, rubbing through to her digit.

“Fuck, that’s hot!”

There’s a moment of silence before she erupts into laughter. “Don’t tell me that was Morse code you were tapping out!”

“I was a boy scout.”

Mai’s eyes narrow in interest. “What did you say?”

“I said ‘I’m in love with your pussy.’ And ‘I want to eat you from the outside-in.’ Just small talk,” I add, lapping at her labial folds.

“You’re in love with my pussy...and I want to marry your mouth.”

“My mouth brings you pleasure?” I ask, corkscrewing my hand, having teamed-up two other digits.

Mai shakes her head.

“It doesn’t bring you pleasure...?”

“I don’t know why you’re different,” she says, clearly holding her breath. “But even your fingers inside me feel different.”

“Like I went to the University of Mai and got my doctorate in pleasing you?”

“Something like that!”

“Know what I like? Know what I like to do, even if it’s not on your ‘Must Have’ list?”

“Show me.”

And so I apply my mouth to her cunt...and I suck.

My tongue’s fluttering, like some sort of mono blender-blade that’s acting schizoid, even as I suck.

“Oh.”

I lift my head off her to silently enquire.

“Don’t stop!”

I kiss her twat. And pause.

“I liked that! Keep doing it!”

   So. Three fingers in her pussy...her own finger up her ass...my mouth performing its ‘burbling’...and for good measure, a hand on a breast, twirling its stud, forearm making contact with her ribcage, elbow with her belly, contact, contact...contact.

   “Fuck!

   She stares down at me.

I look up and see her staring down at me.

Anyone in the vicinity would see us staring at each other.

With the ambient sounds of skating.

We’re at Nathan Phillip’s Square. At Toronto City Hall. I’m tying Mai’s skates. She’s gripping the wooden bench, hunched over a little, staring down at me.

“Tight enough?” I ask. “Too tight?”

“I can’t believe you bought me an outfit!”

“Pshaw!” I say, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not ‘nothing’!”

“Maybe you could do a shoot in it,” I suggest. “Or out of it.”

“I love it. I’m not sharing it with a photographer or wanking subscribers!”

Standing up, I extend my hands to her. “Then let’s make some use of it.”

So yeah, here we are in the middle of winter, in the middle of Toronto, me and Mai Bailey, skating.

Her outfit?

Skates, obviously. White. Black leggings. A loden-green skirt. A brown jacket, with faux-fur on the collar, the cuffs, cut short. And a chapeau. A white toque. With a green bauble.

Mai looks both cute...and radiant.

And she knows it.

And she blushes because she knows that I know that she knows it.

She shrugs this off by asking the obvious question: “Do all you Canadians know how to skate?”

“It’s in our contract,” I tell her, gliding backwards at arms’ length, tugging her down the edge of the rink.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Fourteen

2012-01-07T04:52:00.015-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

“While I’m here,” she says to me afterwards burying her ass in my crotch, harboured there while we spoon, “I need for you to fuck me a lot.”

“OK,” I laugh.

“No, listen: I need you to do that because I cannot be falling for you, Callum.”

“Of course.”

“You do understand, right? I can’t afford to fall for you. Too many complications. Even thinking about it gives me a headache.”

Silence.

“So I need you to fuck me a lot. To make sure I don’t. Fall for you.”

“OK.”

    “I’m serious.”


      I love pussy.

I mean, sure; what straight man doesn’t? But I’m not so much talking about fucking pussy as eating it.

And though I love gettin’ in there, really tongue-fucking a partner, or digitally-fucking her, what I’m talking about is mauing.

Feasting on pussy.

Vulva.

Labia.

Clitoris.

Vagina.

And bush.

It turns out that Mai loves being eaten.

And we know already that she loves being anally adored.

    So is it any surprise at all that we spend an inordinately long time locked in cunnilingual/analingual bliss?

    “How did you get my number so fast?!?” she cries, slamming her fists on the mattress.

“I care,” I reply, executing more of what’s clearly working.

Lovers vary. Lovers’ needs vary, lovers’ capabilities vary. Sometimes things line up, sometimes they don’t.

Mai and me? We line up. Nicely.

How long did it take me to figure out ‘her number’? What she likes, dislikes, dreads-the-intensity-of-yet-craves-more-then-anything-else?

About ten minutes.

Is that because I’m such a wonderfully instinctive lover? Probably not. I’m just really, really good at observing.

Because I’ve watched her masturbate. Both on film and in-person. That’s sorta like having the answers to exam questions beforehand. (No, masturbation ain’t the same as oral sex. and there’s nothing to replace being told what works and what doesn’t. But there’s no doubt that if you watch how a woman masturbates...with her hands...that you can pick up some clues as to her ‘topographical preferences’.)

And unlike with men, who, while undoubtedly love having a good blow-job extended, still love the crescendo most...and then have to wait a while to have another, if in fact he’d still want another, and not move on to penetrative sex...women aren’t nearly as limited.

Especially Mai.

Not that she’s counting orgasms, of course.

“I love the spaces you leave.”

I have to laugh; what she’s said reminds me of the notion that it’s often the space between words, or the spaces between lines where the magic happens in fiction-writing. But I still play dumb. “Oh...?”

Mai grasps my head, swishing my face around on her pudendum. “It’s not an endless race!” she laughs. “So many guys seem to think that it is.”

“Unlike a blow-job.”

“Whatever!” And with this, Mai lets go, throwing her arms over her head, and allows me to return to my mauing.

She has-

Well, first off, her pussy lips are meaty.

They’re the perfect ‘puff-pastry’ delights.

A delicate collection of wrinkles and folds, a rainbow of colouration...

Then there’s her vaginal entrance. It’s got its own complexities attached to it, all shades of pink, from rubescent to ochre to florals in-between, not to mention how intricate the flesh-carvings are, its shape, the particulars of place.

And her clit.

Oh, how we’ve become super-close friends. Her clitoris, my mouth, my fingers.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Thirteen

2012-01-06T04:39:00.001-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

She’s a wonder from behind.

Her height isn’t a factor like this...and yet it is. She’s this magnificent assortment of lines, of wonderfully statuesque, filly-esque lines.

That’s it, in a nutshell: she is the most compelling equine sight, her height, her shape, the muscle, the shimmering skin... I’m witnessing a gorgeous race horse in repose.

As I proceed with my adoration, as I sweep my hand, my fingers, my palm, the heel of my palm, everything over the flute-like delicacy of her neck, appreciating her upper back, the feminine-yet-powerful expanse there, as I kiss her spine, tasting her skin, salted by the sweat our exertions created...

...I’m coming.

“OhmyGOD!” she says, twisting once more, only this time, successfully. She does it quickly enough to witness the last of my spurts.

I’m frozen, just trying to get through the orgasm.

And Mai is staring. Frozen, too.

And in short order, as she’s taking in the sight of my cock oozing its last, Mai’s tears begin again.

No sounds. Just tears.

Finally, she reaches out. Perfectly-manicured nails catch cum. And bring it to her mouth. Apply it to her tongue. Are sucked clean. Then she swallows.

“You came.”

“I did.”

“You came without any contact.”

“Yes.”

“And so quickly.”

“Yup.”

“How?” she asks, dipping to my cock and taking it into her mouth right down to the base of the shaft; her hand lovingly grasps my balls. “Why...?” she adds when she’s retreated, swirling her tongue around my glans.

“I told you,” I gasp. “I was gobsmacked.”

“You came just because you were looking at me from behind.”

“Mostly, yes.”

Mai rises up and kisses me. The taste of me on her tongue makes my cock twitch. “Fuck me,” she whispers. “Fuck me ‘missionary’. I know you’ve just come...but just be inside me. I want to look up at you. Don’t worry about not being completely hard...”

And so pillows are rearranged, her ass is raised off the bed, I’m inserted into her...and we fuck.

Mai’s legs enwrap me, and her hands take my face. She gazes up at me, her normally-piercing eyes all the moreso now. “You came just by looking at me.”

“I was touching you.”

“Just by looking at me.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me...” she rises up off the mattress and comes closer. “Tell me what you see,” she says. “Tell me what made you come.”

“A dear friend of mine told me that when she had her first child, she was so enraptured by him that she wanted to eat him up. She’d kiss his cheeks and she’d have to be careful not to nibble.”

She thinks on this. “I get that. That story. So it’s all about being gobsmacked.”

“Yes.”

“But I still want to hear what you saw.”

“You’re so vain!” I laugh.

    Mai kisses me. “Maybe. But you’re still hard...and I want Mr. Writer to tell me what he saw that made him come.”

    If you had a video of us there, in bed, but with no audio, you might be fascinated. It would show me talking to Mai while she gazed up at me, her hands on my shoulders.
    While I fucked her.

With no variations.

No derivations.

Just us in the ‘missionary’.

As if the sex was secondary. To whatever was being said.

And it was.

Mai wanted to hear my explanation, my recitation of what I see in her from behind, in my own words. She wanted to appreciate my experience... She wanted to experience my experience.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Twelve

2012-01-05T04:47:00.017-05:00

Photograph property of Mai Bailey. Of course.

Some time later, some hours later, Mai awakens in bed. She’s been curled up in my arms, spooned while she’s slumbered. “What...?” she asks, dopey and dozy.

    “I brought you to bed. Eventually. I came in your ass, I devoured my creampie, cleaned us up with a soapy cloth...all the while watching you sleep.”

    She raises her head to look over at the window. “How long were we- I mean, it felt like a dream after a while.”

    “You were drugged.”

    “You drugged me?!?”

    “No. The sex we were having ‘drugged’ you.”

    Her eyes narrow.

    “You found a tantric state. You quite enjoyed yourself in it. Everything else faded away. Pretty simple.”

    “Pretty simple!” she laughs. “Right!”

    “It went swimmingly. Save for ‘the raccoon effect’.”

    She waits.

    “You got a little lost in the emotions. A little overwhelmed.”

    “I remember something... I was crying.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Hmmpphh...”

    “You’re not just a tough bitch, are you?”

    She smacks me.

    “Anyway, you had some raccooning going on. With your makeup.”

    She stares...until she finally gets my drift. “Oh!” she says, wiping at her eyes, her face.

    “It’s all better, now.”

    “Huh?”

    “I cleaned you up.”

    “You what?!?”

    “While you were sleeping. I cleaned you all up.”

    Mai touches her face. “You removed my makeup...?”

    “Yes, Ma’am.”

    Up onto her knees she goes, then exiting the bed with a hop, Mai dashes to the bathroom. There’s silence for a bit...and then she walks back into the room. And rejoins me on the bed.

    My prize is a kiss. “Well done.”

    “Thanks.”

    “You moisturized me, too.”

    “I did.”

    “I look very plain without makeup. I won’t blame you if you can’t get it up, now.”

Now I’m the one laughing.

“That’s not funny!” she says, rolling away from me.

“Of course it is! Your makeup doesn’t define you!”

“You don’t like me with makeup...?” she asks, rising up enough to peer over her shoulder.

“I love you with makeup. It heightens everything. I’m just saying that your beauty isn’t dependent on it.”

“Right.”

“Are you upset that I de-raccooned you?”

“No.”

“But you still feel a little invaded, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“I understand. It’s one thing for a lover to have known your vulva and vagina intimately with tongue and finger and cock, one to have had your asshole made into an object of desire, one to have placed yourself in such a vulnerable state, standing up fucking that your knees buckle and your partner takes it upon himself to ensure the session continue regardless...and another entirely to have him be so presumptuous as to remove your makeup while you sleep.”

Now she covers her face. I can’t see this, because she’s still facing away, but I’m sure this is what she does, given her movements.

As she begins to turn, I stop her.

“What...?” she asks, all timid.

“Let me have this moment?” I reply, sweeping my hand down her back.

Mai shivers. “Oh...”

“Keep talking,” I tell her, sliding closer, kissing a shoulder blade.

Shivering again, she clears her throat. “You did drug me.”

I’ll admit it: I’m suddenly consumed by the sight of Mai Bailey. Despite what we’ve been up to, despite how we’ve out-honeymooned just about any honeymoon couple on record with what we’ve been up to so far...at the beginning of this Toronto rendezvous...I’m downright...

“Gobsmacked,” I say out loud.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not ‘drugged’. But I’m gobsmacked. You’re just so...so...”

“I know,” she says. “I mean, that’s not what I meant!” She tries to spin again, but once more, I prevent her.

“Mai, I’m laying here, and my cock is now rigid. We’ve fucked for hours, had each other in various ways...you and I were shagging at that window for a hell of a long time...but I’m laying here and I’m hard. Why? Because you’re sucking me off? No. Because you’re masturbating me? No. It’s because I’m just laying here looking at you.”

Once more, she shivers. “Drugged.”

“Yes. So I get it.”

“What do you want to do? What are you going to do?”

“I want to touch every square inch of you...I want to kiss it all, too...and then I’ll probably want to take you. Vaginally...anally...I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “We’ll see.”

Nice!

2012-01-04T12:27:00.000-05:00

Coming up soon: Morgan Reigns

2012-01-04T07:26:00.001-05:00

I'll admit it: I'd never heard of her. (In the words of Monica on 'Friends', "I KNOW!!!")

But I happened to catch her on a cam popup and honestly, I was captivated from the start. The eyes, the cheekbones, the smile...and the schnozz!!!

LOL

She's an Amazon, she's a redhead, she has green eyes, she's sharp as a tack, puts up with no bullshit and has this energy swirling around her...

Why wouldn't I want to write an erotica paean to/for/about her?!?

Please excuse me while I review material.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Eleven

2012-01-04T04:35:00.015-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

Mai comes and I don’t hardly acknowledge it at all. I keep thrusting. I keep at her tits. And I keep talking.

”Attracted by the excitement, other forest dwellers occupy ringside seats near this fierce contest. Although Orion is a popular personality, Taurus, too, has his fans and supporters. These include a strange and wonderful mythical creature who finds his way through the crowd and settles down between the hunting dogs, close to Orion's side. Monoceros, the unicorn, anxiously awaits the outcome. Will Taurus overcome the dreaded Hunter that bragged there was no animal that existed he could not be defeat?Nearby stand two young men whose deeds are celebrated in the ancient world of sports, Pollux and Castor. The famous twins known as Gemini rest from their own busy conquests while they observe the unfolding battle.”

Mai is all stares. She’s with me, but her head’s inclined up, she’s focused her attention on what I’m yammering on about, and so seems there...but not. The most I get from her in terms of participation is the way she pulses her vaginal coombe on me. Each micro-thrust is met with a micro-snag, providing a lovely give-and-take between us.

    “Cheering Taurus on to victory are the Seven Sisters known as the Pleiades. For years, the Great Hunter pursued the seven beautiful daughters of the Titan Atlas and the Oceanid Pleione with ill intent, until Zeus turned them into a cluster of seven stars to save them from Orion's intentions. To this day, Orion still continues his hot but hopeless pursuit, rising after the Pleiades in the eastern skies and following them across the heavens.”

    And so here we are, fixed in place. My gentle thrusting. Mai’s clenching and un-clenching. The dedication of attention to her tits.

    And Mai’s orgasms.

    It’s not far along that Mai begins to cry. There have been several releases, ones that have her collapsing back onto me, wracking her body from top to bottom...and then back again. As there’s no real ‘sprint’ from me, no real demarcation of effort, there is no real respite. At least the respite decreases to a point where it’s hard to tell when the ‘payoff’ is imminent.

    With everything both focused and diffused, she craves a different way to deal with the intensity, and so tears come.

    There’s no sobbing. She doesn’t ‘break down’ and lose it entirely. It’s just Mai crying. Weeping, actually.

    No, I don’t pause, or otherwise change what I’m doing at either her cunt or her tits. It all remains much the same.

    In fact, here’s a reference that might help: we’re meditating.

    We’re meditating on the wonders of sexual connection against the wonders of the universe.

    So while Mai contends with being overwhelmed, the stars keep twinkling.

    I guess you also need to understand that while this interlude stretches on and on, it’s not as if we’re involved in a marathon frenzy-fucking session.

    It’s very much as I’ve described: ‘gentle’.

    With narrative and weeping thrown in for good measure.

    “I want-”

    Mai has to stop and clear her throat. Several times.

    “I want you in my bum,” she finally declares.

    And with this, she’s up onto her tippy-toes, reaching behind her, pulling away, finding a way to extricate herself (because I provide her no assistance whatever), and then she’s off me, then she’s re-directing me, then she’s got me, then she’s lowering herself, then she’s flat-footed once again, and I’m in her, I’m fucking her ass, I’m in her bum.

    “Oh, blimey...” she groans, falling back into me. “I think I’m going to be able to come this way, too!” She doesn’t go for her clit, as I’d expected. She keeps her hands behind her, fingers pressed against my groin, feeling the movement there. “Fuck me a little harder...?”

    To do so, I have to release Mai’s tits.

    When I do, when I finally cease contact with them, there’s an audible gasp from her.

    But this soon turns to melodic murmuring as I enfold her with my arms, a big hug, a suitably galactic hug, keeping her in place while I plough her back-passage ‘a little harder’.

    In due course, the effect is the same as before. Mai is taken to another state entirely. And it’s clear she knows it with the way she offers up a simple ‘Oh’.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Ten

2012-01-03T04:09:00.007-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

“Sure. I fell in love with them as an eleven year-old. Got a telescope for Christmas. Made some trips with my big sister to a planetarium we used to have right here in the city. Fond, fond memories.” I back off on my tweaking, and massage her breasts instead. It’s a distinct experience, being this intimate with augmented breasts. There’s a mix of the ‘natural’...the texture of her skin, its temperature, its pliability...with the surreal, these masses of substance within, the almost-but-not-quite solid forms that provide some resistance, and yet despite them bring ‘foreign bodies’, are thrilling nonetheless. “What would you like to know?”

    “Hmm...” she muses, shimmying on me, vulva, labia, sphincter all in the mix at various times, the varying types of flesh abrading my erection, leaving a varied impression. “Maybe I need to get more comfortable,” she suggests. And with this, she rises up onto her toes, rearranges and realigns, and then descends, taking me in past her folds, through her aperture, taking me inside her vagina, piking herself on me.

    A full minute of ‘settling-in’ follows, one in which she quietly (silence augmented with whimpers and gasps, all tiny, all nearly inaudible) and capably makes things ‘best’.

    “Are you ready, then?” I ask, paraphrasing the television host from days-gone-by. “Good; we’ll begin.”

    As I talk, I push up into Mai, bottoming-out, back-and-forths slight...yet still very much present.

    As I talk, I carry on ministering to her tits, chumming it up with her nipples, making the most of our contact.

    As I talk, Mai and I make love. The two of us in the dark. The two of us at the window, staring out at the pinpricks of light as I shaft her methodically, meticulously...truly, madly, deeply.

    “A silvery thread in the heavens, Eridanus, greatest of all rivers, winds slowly through vast fanciful forestlands. On its grassy banks stands a solitary, impressive figure dressed in hunting attire. The man's powerful arms are upraised; his right hand clutches a stout club, and the left holds aloft a shield made from the skin of a lion. His calm, steadfast gaze is directed at the fearsome visage of a deadly opponent: horns lowered, angry red eye glaring with the lust of combat, a great white Bull threatens to charge the hunter.”

    “Where?” Mai asks, absolutely, positively distracted, hands on my thighs, nails digging in...just a little. “Where do you see that?”

    I continue to make love to her tits, each hand with each breast a union of its own, full and complete, her nipples milked, the posts spun in half-circles, her topography becoming burnt into the memory-banks of my digits. “Through unending reaches of time and with inexhaustible patience, the "Great Hunter" Orion awaits his challenger, Taurus. Nearby crouch two faithful dogs who always accompany the hero on his exploits: Canis Major, the larger and more aggressive, and Canis Minor, smaller and more timid. At the Hunter's feet a little woodland Hare, Lephus, quietly watches the confrontation unafraid knowing that everyone's attention is focused on the charging Bull.”

    “Oh, Jesus...” she says, trembling, jittering in place as I fuck her, as I manipulate her tits, as I carry on carrying on with her. Carrying on with Mai.

    I need to tell you here and now that our ‘astronomical/zodiacal’ interlude is... Well, it ends up being this ‘Lost in Bliss’ affair.

    What we’ve begun, standing here staring up at the stars in the inky darkness of a city-wide blackout, continues unabated through what must to Mai seem this endless train of sensory overload.

    The first climax is not expected. But all the moreso, neither is the panoply of those that follow, some serial in nature, some sequential, but all adding to the elongated moment, an indulgence of stimulation that is our own cosmic display.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Nine

2012-01-02T04:39:00.011-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

We look out upon an amazing expanse of stars, hardly diffused by the full moon even one candlepower.

    How?

    How can this be, as we’re in the city, right on the lakefront of one of the most lit-up cities in North America?

    Two words: power blackout.

    Yes, the hotel’s emergency generators instantly kicked into action. So the hallways are safely illuminated. I know because we checked the hallway.

    But this room faces south. Lake Ontario. Which means there’s nothing to see out there.

    Save for the stars.

    “Wow.”

    Mai says this as she rolls her fingers and thumb around the head of my cock, playing with the foreskin and the glans, scraping kindly at my peehole.

    “It’s just a penis, Lady. It doesn’t belong in a museum, and it doesn’t rate your incredulity.”

    Mai is all laughter.

    Well, laughter and a tightening of her thighs.

    A gesture that pincers my dick.

    You see, we’re standing at the broad expanse of a window. I’m standing behind Mai. Mai is standing on a very short stool. A ‘foot-stool’. Its legs are gorgeously carved walnut, while the actual ‘top’ is velour. Larkspur velour. Soft. And yet the padding it covers is firm.

    She stands on it to make up the difference in our height.

    So I can take her from behind more easily.

    After all, I believe, on occasion, in marathon-fucks.

    I have a very, very special place in my heart for ‘quickies’, and I love everything in between the two...but once in a while, I need to engage in something ridiculously drawn-out and monumental.

    Which is why we’re here, at the window, gazing out into the sky, with my erection between her legs, and Mai fiddling around with it.

    Casual-like.

    “I love your cock,” she murmurs. “It is most definitely worthy of being in a museum. But only when I’m finished with it.”

    “Not any time soon, I hope.”

    Here’s the thing about Mai: she’s a temptress, yes. She’s a voracious virago, a hellion under the sheets, a true dream in bed.

    But...but...

    But there are these other aspects to her. Ones that are just as commanding, just as riveting as the other stuff.

    Like when she turns her head and smiles at me.

    It’s nothing ‘playful’. Or ‘manipulative’. Or even ‘sexy’.

    It’s simply Mai turning to me and looking into my eyes and smiling at me.

    While she has her quiet way with my cock.

    “Not any time soon, no,” she finally says, going for my mouth, leading with her tongue and going for my mouth, joining us here, to combine with all the other points-of-contact.

    These points-of-contact include the upper-ridge of my cock against her under-carriage, my abs with her lower back, my chest with her upper back, my thighs pressing against her hamstrings, a knee against the back of hers, the inside of one of my feet propped up on the outside of one of hers, my arms at her ribcage...

    ...because my fingers are going to work on her nipples.

    Her much-ballyhooed, posts-drive-through-them nipples.

    Tugging them out to outrageous extents, twisting them, tweaking them...loving them in the forceful ways Mai demands.

    “Good,” I say, lowering my head for a nibble at her neck.

    She shivers and faces forward once again. “What can you tell me about them?” she asks.

    “What,” I begin to ask. “Your tits?” With this, I continue going to town on them, stretching out her nipples, her abundance of areolae...pushing the boundaries of comfort until she’s approaching ‘exquisite pain’.

    Which she notes with a curling-in of her shoulders, a gesture that at once has her embracing my actions...while mutely warding them off. “No!” she giggles, a little frustration in her voice. “The stars...!”

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Eight

2012-01-01T04:27:00.024-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

And so here begins another interlude, with both of us inclining, one to the other, me working her feet and she working my mouth.

   Many people miss vast expanses of intimacy because they focus on the obvious. On the standard. But the truth is that, just as the mind is the biggest erogenous zone we have, those ‘overlooked’ or ‘neglected’ areas hold astounding ‘precursor’ caches of power; tap into them, and when you get to the obvious, the standard –tits, clit, anus, mouth– you’ve suddenly managed to fuel-inject the process.

   Mai has lovely feet. Making me want to spend time there. And the truth is, I do have a special way with massaging. It’s like having a conversation with someone while adding subliminal messages at a very low, mostly-inaudible frequency, so that while you’re talking about the weather out loud, you’re also ‘seducing’ her in parallel.

   And so we kiss, and I continue to ply her insteps, her Achilles, her arches...the balls of her feet, the knuckles of her toes...the soft pads at the end of every ‘piggy’.

   In truth, I make love to Mai’s feet.

   Wholly.

   Consciously.

   Unreservedly.

   All the while connecting with her mouth, her lips, her tongue.

   And you know what often happens when you concentrate loving attention on a woman when she’s ‘accessible’ and ‘enthusiastic’.

   So after a prolonged period of me shining the seams of her metatarsals, her proximal phalanges, her digital phalanges, after I’ve lavished an abundance of adoration on the outer reaches of her feet, after I’ve made her shiver as I’ve made her aware of just how receptive the concavity, the span underneath can be, Mai moans an orgasm into me, and it reverberates against my cheeks, my teeth, down the back of my throat.

   She moans her climax as my fingers and thumbs carry on with their loving attention, shifting up to her ankle bones, buffing the protuberances there, even as she trembles her last.

   “Can we fuck now...?” she giggles, going for my tongue with a sudden burst of exuberance.

   “No.” And with this, I begin to migrate up to her lower legs.

   Mai stares down. At my new-found focus. “OK.”

   “OK?” I ask, laughing. “Suddenly, she’s not asking questions.”

   I watch her expression change as I apply pressure to her soleus, her gastrocnemius. “Because you’re the man who can make me come by massaging my feet. That’s why.”

   “No complaints, then.”

   “No complaints,” she sighs, words all airy and gone.

   Onwards and upwards I go, Mai’s lower legs the focus now, her toes still curling in the afterglow. Though not a ‘big gal’, a powerful Amazon, she’s been blessed with lovely calves. And her tibialis anteriors (her shins) have their own oomph about them, bringing about a certain ‘stiffness’ at my groin.

   “That’s not the part of my legs guys are usually fond of,” she tells me, half in wonder, half in jest...and half in clear appreciation. “You know,” she carries on, my face in her hands, “if you hadn’t already fucked me good and proper, I’d be dying for you to shag me about now.”

   “Have I made the blood pool in your nether-regions, then...?” I tease, gathering up the backs of her legs...and compressing with just the right amount of loving fixation...while stealing another kiss.

   “Yes.”

   “Good,” I reply, moving up to her knees. “I’ll have you know that I especially like your knees.”

   “I think you’ve actually said that about every body part.”

   “Funny, that.” And here, I kiss them.

   “No,” Mai insists, tugging me back to her. “If you’re going to be kissing...then I want those kisses up here.”

   “What if...” I begin, smoothing down the tops of her thighs, feeling the muscles there, feeling the expanse of flesh, feeling her heat. “What if I want to carry on towards your honey pot...?”

   “This...?” she asks, making a fan of her knees, revealing her snatch. Well, within the confines of the bath robe’s shadows, anyway.

   “There, eventually...yes.”

   “Then you’ll have to limit yourself to your hands,” she replies. “Until it’s time to use your mouth.”

   So I’m left to slide my hands under, cupping her hamstrings. And massaging them.

   “You even fancy them, don’t you?”

   “You were bigger, once. Weren’t you?”

   “Yes.”

   “I’ve seen photos. Maybe not of then, but when you were more like then, than now.”

   “I had big thighs.”

   “You still do.”

   “They’re different.”

   “They make me hard.”

   “Everything about me makes you hard!” Now she’s laughing.

   “I’ll work on that,” I declare solemnly. “I’ll work on my resistance to you. Eventually, nothing about you will make me hard.”

   “No!” she squeals, hugging me close.

   “So you only like me when I’m hard...?” I squeeze especially firmly.

   “Ow!”

   “Maybe we should spend some time when my rock-hard dick’s not allowed to participate. Maybe that would force you to appreciate the rest of me. Not make me feel so...so objectified.”

   I’ve grabbed hold of her vulva.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Seven

2011-12-31T04:13:00.016-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

Take a look at any photo of Mai. She’s alluring. Now, I’m not talking about her ‘pose’. I’m talking about her.

    Her face.

    The essence she brings to the moment.

    The way she defines the exchange you have with her.

    When was the last time you saw a woman who so uniquely captivates?

    Mai sits in front of her laptop. Sipping her tea, ensconced in the hotel bath robe, its white terry-towel bulk contrasting with her ochre skin tone (she’d recently been to Ibiza) and her svelte-yet-slight frame.

    She’s Skyping with a friend back in London. Some missed arrangements needing to be cleared up for a business collaboration scheduled to commence upon her return.

    “He’s right here,” she says to the friend, peering over at me.

    “Wot, in the room right now? While we’re talking?!?” her friend asks.

    “Of course!” Mai laughs. “He just did some delightful things to my pussy, Kate. Do you really think I should ask for some privacy...?”

    Silence.

    “Describe ‘delightful’.”

    Mai sits back, crosses her arms and seems to expand with vigor at being put on the spot. In fact, she’s glowing.

    “You’re glowing!” Kate squeals. “You bitch!”

    “He’s a marvellous lover,” Mai explains.

    “So he’s not just a good shag.”

    “He’s a little beyond that,” she sniffs.

    “OK!” Kate laughs. “Then why don’t you-”

    “He ate a double creampie out of my pussy.”

    “Oh.”

    Mai stares at me.

    And I stare back. Taking in the moment.

    “I think I need to go now, Katie.”

    “OK, Sweetie. I’m glad we got to talk. Have fun. Miss you...”

    The session ends, and the room returns to silence.

    Without waiting for an invite, I go to her, pulling up a chair, and as I sit, I take hold of her feet so that I have them in my lap. “Good friend, Kate?” I ask, massaging her soles.

    Mai nods...and keeps staring.

    I keep massaging.

    Suddenly, she’s this running commentary in Russian. Factual...expository...confessional...instructional...declarative...conspiratorial...conversational. All of the above, and more. She watches what I’m doing as she talks, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to be saying what she’s saying while I’m doing what I’m doing.

    Yeah; ‘natural’.

    That’s how it feels.

    I massage, Mai talks, I minister, she shares, and we’re suspended in this moment that stretches and stretches like some intense cinematic scene.

    “What do you see when you look at me?” she finally asks.

    “Oh... I see exotica.”

    She likes this. “You think I’m exotic.”

    “Yes.”

    “Is that what makes you hard? For me? That I’m ‘exotic’?” 

    “Part of it.”

    “What else?” she asks. “I mean, why am I exotic to you and why-” She pauses, eyes closed, her head tilted up to the vaulted ceiling. And lets loose a heartfelt imploration in her native tongue. Then she gulps, opens her eyes and smiles. “You have a way with my feet.”

    “Surely you realize that your feet aren’t the only avenue for my ‘way’.”

    Mai hikes herself up off the chair-back and leans to me, scrunching down tiny-like, making herself into an adorable ball.

    An exotic adorable ball.

    An exotic adorable ball of Mai.

    “I should be paying you.”

    “I thought we’d covered this already.”

    “I’m not used to being spoiled. Not like this.”

    “And to think that you just got here.”

    “I need kisses.”

    “So you want me to stop massaging.”

    “I want both,” she declares with an oversized Mai Bailey grin.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Six

2011-12-30T04:02:00.016-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

She awakens when she comes.

    With a start, an additional start, with regaining consciousness a jolt enough, only to be accented by an orgasm.

    “Bloody hell!” she cries, and she’s brought alive fully at the hips, lashing out with her cunt, making merry with my cock, ass bouncing, dancing up a storm. “You made me come...!”

    “Something like that.”

    She’s in flight for a bit, so she doesn’t say much until she’s landed. And when she does speak again, it’s hardly quoteworthy: “Mmm...”

    “Oh, you’re just saying that...” I offer, enjoying how she’s pulsing all over me. Well, all over my cock.

    “I like the way you service your guests.”

    “I like the way you’re such a pliant guest.”

    “I like being ‘pliant’ for you.” And with this, she twists to look at me. “I really am quite bendy, you know.”

    “I’m looking forward to finding out just how ‘bendy’ you are.”

    “Quite. Bendy, that is. I promise.”

    I wink.

    Mai gazes down to where I’m still ploughing her. “You got something else for me, Mister...?”

    “Would you like something else, Missy...?”

    “Please.” And now she winks.

    “I’m going to make you bubble with cum.”

    Mai swizzles as I stick her.

    “Then I’m going to gobble it up.”

    “Mmm...”

    “Right out of you.”

    “A creampie.”

    “Yes, Ma’am.”

    “You did promise.”

    “I did.”

    She watches me some more. “Did you want me to return my seat to the ‘laying down’ position...or can I watch?”

    “Would you like to watch me come?”

    “Yes, please.”

    I go to her.

    Hovering close to her mouth, I maintain a non-expressive expression. “I’m paying you for all this, right?”

    “Yes, Sir.”

    “So I’m allowed to say what I want.”

    “Of course.”

    “Good.”

    She waits.

    “When I’ve said what I’ve said, I just want you to kiss me.”

    “OK.”

    I nuzzle up to her, my cheek against her cheek. Then I go for her ear, nibbling on the delicate lobe. Then I kiss her, tongue lightly strafing her lips. “I have a lot to say to you,” I tell her, voice far more modulated than my cock’s activities.

    She nods.

    “But for now...I just wanted to tell you...that I love you...”

    And I come.

    Mai’s eyes flash wide, and if it weren’t for our kiss, she’d surely be beaming a smile.

    God, it feels like my balls are emptied beyond ‘empty’ into her. Drained.

    We continue our kiss, our tongues playing, all during my release.

    At the conclusion of which, I’m sucking on her lower lip.

    Unexpectedly, Mai grabs my face as best she can, one-handed, nails pressing deep. “You promised.”

    “Of course I did,” I mumble, pulling out of her while sliding down onto the bed...while applying my face to her gash. “Your creampie is mine, Madame...”

    Here before me, Mai’s pussy. Labial folds engorged, distended, flush with blood, enflamed with exertion. South of her vulva, the dense mat of her bush. North is her rectum, the rubbery pucker that’s alive with its own needs.

    Grabbing her cheeks, I apply my mouth to her pussy and probe.

    Instantly, I taste myself, the saltiness of ejaculate.

    Just as instantly, Mai urges what I’d deposited to descend, pushing out the cum, contracting her coombe so that the creamy stuff flows.

    “Mine, I tells ya!” I laugh, and lick her up, loading dollops of jism onto my tongue, flicking and foraging, retrieving all that’s available, my nose getting distracted by her asshole, my fingertips urging holds into her thighs.

    “Is there lots back there...?” she calls out. Hopefully.

    “I could create an army with the sperm oozing out of you!”

    I’m a ‘movement’ sort of guy. I like progression. I like physical change. So it’s no surprise when I sit myself down and raise up Mai’s ass to accommodate. Forcing her into a ‘downward dog’ yoga position.

    Naturally, one thing leads to another, and this shift shifts to yet another phase: me easing myself onto my back...Mai bracing herself on my face...while she has her way with the gloppiness that remains on my cock.

    “I like the way you make things happen,” she laughs, rolling my balls in one hand while stroking my cock with the other, teeth lovingly scraping my glans, tongue needling my peehole.

    I just keep on making a meal of her sex. Her rapidly-being-made-pristine sex.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Five

2011-12-29T04:02:00.012-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

And so that’s what I do. I unload into Mai’s ass...then, errant splotches hardly amounting to a tablespoon’s worth of jism, her cunt...then back to her ass, a few more spurts...and then finally push into her pussy up to the hilt, burying myself there as my cock twitches itself into a state of half-tumescence.

    “Mmm...” she Cheshire Cat grins, almost singing her pleasure, her head rearing back even as she clenches herself on me, squeezing me, milking me to ‘empty’ with staggered efforts.

    “Yeah?” I say, rearranging us, bringing her knees up, twisting, bending, realigning...

    ...until she’s whooping, laughing up a storm as she’s belly-down on the mattress, with me entirely obliterating her, smothering her statuesque frame with my much-taller body. “You can’t fuck me,” she sings. “You can’t fuck me right now...”

    “You’re right,” I say, her wrists my captives, my hands firmly in control of them. “So we’ll just have to wait until I’m able to once again. Yes...?”

    “And in the meantime?” she teases, writhing against me. “What if I get bored? What if I fall asleep?”

    “Go right ahead,” I reply, kissing her neck, kissing the silky skin there, even as I grind into her rump. “Slumber. I’m sure you’re pretty knackered from so many eruptions...”

    “Oh...” she manages, fading into another bliss-zone. “That’s tempting,” she adds, slumping all the more...while pressing up into my contact points.

    “I dare ya.”

    And with this, I slow down.

    I’m still kissing her, nuzzling her, massaging her, caressing her.

    I’m still on her, my body’s weight attenuated by mattress-contact at elbows, knee and forearm.

    I’m still in her.

    But in my own way, in my own physical and psychic way, I’m performing a lullabye. One that soothes Mai after a substantive release...after quite a few substantive solo releases...so that in a surprisingly short time...

    ...she’s out like a light.

    Which, I gotta tell ya...makes me hard.

    Carefully, I reassess and realign, up off her slightly...but really, only so I can look at her.

    She’s a study in opposites: her front is a gallery of tattoos. Her back? Pristine. It’s like being with another gal.

    On her back, all that disrupts the broad expanse of skin are two beauty marks. On a diagonal. One the larger cousin to the other.

    Bending, bowing, I kiss them. While my cock stirs some more.

    The texture of her back, the silkiness of her skin is a thrill for my lips...even though my mustache makes her wriggle in reaction.

    I straighten out to peer down properly...and the sight of all this unmarked skin makes my dick twitch.

    “Yeah...” I whisper, running a hand over her spine, thumbing along the bumps, all the way to her lower back, to the top of her rump, to where we’re joined.

    “Fuck, yeah...”

    My hardness, my expanding hardness also elicits a reaction from Mai, even though she’s still out of it; there’s a whimpering, a certain high-pitched keening, faint but discernible, that rises out of the smushed pillow. To go along this, hipsway. A not-so-faint pelvis thrust, an entreaty for more movement from my cock.

    “Yeah...?” My question is only for me, but it’s as if Mai is listening, because there’s a push back against me...and then, following a contented sigh, she does what she can to curl up; one knee slides north, and there’s now a slight bend to her torso...leaving her moving away while straining closer.

    And so I adjust accordingly.

    And because I’m pretty much back to my state of ‘concrete’, I proceed to fuck Mai while she’s asleep.

    I rename myself ‘The Mai Whimperer’.

    Yeah, I know that I’ve mangled the reference, because in the book and movie, the practitioner was the one whispering to the horses. And in this case, it’s the practitioner being whimpered to.

    And I do mean ‘whimpered to’; the volume in loudness of Mai’s unconscious declarations increases at regular intervals, as well as in abundance. Think of them as the equal to conscious, aware utterances during sex. You know, the ‘Yeah, right there!’, ‘Fuck me! Fuck me harder!” sort of stuff.

    Which just makes me make love to her all the more animatedly...

    ...meaning that I’m all the more ‘The Mai Whimperer’.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Four

2011-12-28T04:07:00.019-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

    I make her wait.

    I make her wait a loooooong time.

    I also make her come.

    “Wasn’t that a nice consolation prize?” I ask, watching her descend from her orgasm, delighting in her fluttering eyelids and lip-licking tongue.

    “No!” she grumbles, squirming to get my digits inside her.

    “Spoiled brat.” My mumbled declaration is lost in her gasp as I push on, driving my fingers towards her cervix...as I proceed to fuck her.

    “Oh, blimey...”

    I don’t want to talk, I want to go back to kissing. So that’s precisely what happens next.

    We kiss...and I finger-fuck her.

    Not entirely true; I hand-fuck her. (Not to be confused with ‘fisting’.) And there’s as much coming back from her as there is being applied by me. So it’s not as if I’m just corkscrewing her with my fingers.

    Into my mouth she pours fury. Yelled, growled fury. Wide-eyed, closed-eyed, fluttering-lidded...fury.

    At one point, it’s a silent scream, an agonized caterwauling as her body becomes something out of ‘The Exorcist’; back arching wickedly, wracked with convulsions, fingers and feet twitching...one endless spasmic contortion.


    “Mmm...”

    Her vulva an oil field, my fingertips skate about the treacherous skin, slipping and sliding comically. Meanwhile, I go back and forth between her tits, licking and nibbling and suckling.

    “Was that your version of ‘foreplay’...?” she asks, sounding faraway and content.

    “A sliver,” I reply.

    Mai’s been laying here, eyes closed, facing the ceiling. Now her eyes open as her smile goes wide, wide, wide. “I like this.”

    “I’m glad.”

    She shrugs. “I can just let you do what you want.”

    “Yes.”

    “I don’t have to worry about a thing.”

    “Nope.”

    “You’re gonna take care of my every need.”

    “If that’s what you want.”

    She turns to me. “What if I want to take care of your every need?”

    “We can talk about it.”

    A frown. A palpable frown. “I don’t get it.”

    And so I kiss Mai. And linger. “I don’t want you ‘servicing’ me.”

    “What if I want to...?” Amidst me masturbating her, she’s effected a forlorn expression.

    “Then we can talk about it. Negotiate.”

    “Maybe I could have an entire day when I get to do everything my way.”

    “Maybe,” I reply, pushing inside her again, watching her swoon...and then withdrawing, pushing both fingers inside her ass...in one go.

    “You sure know the way to a girl’s heart...”

    I’m quick.

    Rising up onto my knees, I reposition myself, keeping my fingers in motion. While I undo my belt, I shimmy along and without really disrobing, and with Mai up on her elbows, eyes wide and narrow at the same time, I enter her vaginally...while managing to keep her rectum filled, too.

    Her mouth makes an enormous ‘O’.

    “God, you feel good...!” I tell her.

    Her legs enwrap me, and we’re suddenly in furious, tandem motion together.

    “Finally...” she snaps, my face in her hands, my mouth obliterated by hers. “Finally I have your cock in my pussy.”

    “And my hand up your ass.”

    “And your tongue in my mouth,” she adds, making it so.

    We fuck on.

    “Are you going to be keeping my back-passage crammed like that?” she smiles.

    “What’s your pleasure?” I reply.

    “I’d like your cock there, if you really want to know...”

    And so I shift, replacing my fingers with my erection, pushing deep, watching Mai’s expression sharpen, then soften, then melt.

    “And I like things back-and-forth.”

    “A little risky,” I suggest.

    “I’m uncommonly clean,” she counters, putting be back in her cunt. “Let me worry about all that, alright...?”

    And so we play hop-scotch.

    Back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth...

    “A girl could get used to being spoiled like this,” she confides, fingernails raking my back.

    “Well, a girl might deserve to be spoiled.”

    “I like the way you think.”

    “Speaking of thinking...”

    “Yes...?”

    “I think I’m going to come.”

    “Good.”

    “Where do you think I should deliver unto you...?”

    “Both, please.” And she winks. “That’s what I think.”

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Three

2011-12-27T04:00:00.009-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

“I think I’m going to come.”

    “Stop fucking yourself.”

    She does.

    “Relax. Watch what I’m doing. Take it all in,” I tell her. “Feel it all.”

    And she does.

    And with all the nuzzling and teasing and nibbling and slathering and suckling...

    ...Mai comes.

    If I had to describe it, I think I’d say ‘It was as if she’d been told something that disappointed her grievously, and then had been punched in the gut’: Mai moans, then folds, all her energies going inwards as she trembles and whimpers and jerks and flutters...

    I keep licking at her nipple.

    “Can I have the other one done, please...?” Her request is hardly one I could refuse.

    “On your side, please.”

    And she does. She shifts over onto her side, presenting the other breast. As I approach it, Mai’s hand goes to the back of my head, her fingers caressing my scalp, and I begin to perform magic here, too.

    “You still speak Russian.”

    “Mmm...”

    “Talk to me. In Russian. Say anything you want. Lie to me, if you want. But as I’m doing this, I’d like to hear you talking to me in your native tongue.”

    Her initial words are a little thin, faint and reedy. But as I suckle, as I massage and knead the one I’d just attended to, they become more articulated. And the speed of her delivery increases. As does the coursing of her fingernails through my hair.

    I pinch the other nipple, tugging on the post, really wrenching everything out from her chest. Mai cries out, but there’s an element of longing attached to her action, so rather than stop, I continue...and suckle harder.

    “I...” Deep breath. “I can’t believe...”

    “What’s that in Russian...?”

    There’s a stream of words, absolutely unintelligible to me, but searingly intense, barks and yells and whimpers and everything in between...and on it goes.

    She stares at me once more.

    Only this time, I’m level with her. So she’s not looking down. We’re equals.

    “What now?” she asks.

    “You’re bored...?” I laugh.

    There’s hardly a reaction. But even so, in her eyes, on her face... Adoration.

    “This,” I tell her, reaching down to her pussy, placing my palm flat on her, then pressing in, ever-so-gently.

    “Mmm...”

    “Yeah?” I ask, even as her hips begin to gyrate, as her pelvis juts, as she attempts to increase the contact.

    She nods.

    “Clit...or coombe...?”

    “Coombe...?”

    “Vag.”

    “I do want your fingers inside me.”

    “Uh-huh...” I begin moving in a slow circle.

    “But I think you could perform some magic on my clit.”

    “What about both...?”

    “I like the way you think!” she says, arms over her head, clearly relishing how I’m ministering to her.

    “While I go back to suckling...?” I ask.

    “No,” she replies, moving closer with her face. “I want that mouth on mine.”

    And so for the first time, Mai Bailey and I kiss.

    Now, you may or may not know that I love kissing.

    Oh, I love just about everything connected to women. Their bodies, their minds, the way they move through the world, everything having to do with sex with them, oral, anal, a kajillion positions...

    But kissing...?

    Wowza.

    Kissing is it.

    Everything leads from kissing.

    And to it.

    And nothing is complete without it.

    And the one thing that takes it to another level entirely is when your partner is enjoying herself so much that she’s smiling, nearly laughing as you’re kissing.

    My index and middle fingers lovingly scraping Mai’s vulva-vaginal border, my thumb does something similar around her clit...including pressing down on the root, the mass beneath, stimulating generally, and on a large scale.

    “In-side me!” she pleads, biting my lower lip.

    “No,” I whisper, watching her eyes flash, hazel-to-olive-to-brown-to-copper...and back again. “Not yet.”

    “Bastard!”

    “That’s me,” I concede softly. “That’s me entirely.”

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter Two

2011-12-26T04:05:00.021-05:00

Photograph property of 21Sextury. Of course.

I sit on the bed and watch from here. Mai continues doing what she’s compelled to do. (Well, what she’s been instructed to do.) All limbs and hands, fingers and sex, hard nipples, goosebumped skin...perspiration, saliva, juices, effluvia...and motion, motion...motion.

    Even though she’s pretty much silent...save for soughing and moaning, the tiniest of tittered complaints...I can hear voice in my head. It’s melodic, sing-song... Enchanting.

    “Talk to me,” I whisper.

    “What do you want me to say?” she replies softly. Of course. “Do you want me to tell you some more about how I want you to be fucking me...?” Now she’s growling.

    And I swear, there’s another wink here.

    “I will fuck you,” I tell her.

    “Hard,” she insists.

    “However the hell I want to be fucking you, my dear.”

    Her fingers pause...dig in...then seem compelled to push deep.

    “I absatively, posolutely guarantee that when you’re jetting back to the UK, you’ll be glowing in your first-class seat, smug in knowing that you’ve been properly fucked by a Canuck.”

    “You’re going to eat creampies out of my pussy.”

    “I am.”

    Shaking her head, Mai goes to town a little more furiously.

    “Patience is a virtue.”

    “Patience,” she spits, “was a girl in school. I hated her.”

    “Would it help if I put a down-payment on what you want?”

    She looks right at me. “Such as...?”

    “Your choice: I can join you with my fingers...we can snog...or I can suckle.”

    Cupping a breast, she provides me not only with her answer, but with my first feast.

    “I’ll provide you fair warning,” I say to her, licking the nipple, feeling the cold metal on my tongue. “You’ll be spoiled forever...”

    I swear Mai doesn’t breathe for a good minute or so. And her frigging goes to ‘molasses’ state. But as I twirl my tongue on her distended nubbin, as I explore the areole, as I prepare to feed at her, a low, rumbling hum issues up from her chest, through her throat and then rolls around inside her mouth...

    ...until at last, its expelled...along with her stoppered breath.

    And now I suckle.

    Mai’s breasts are augmented. She was the ideal candidate for implants; her ‘cookies’ were enormous, outsized and out of proportion to the small mass of her tits. Now... Now they’re glorious.

    And as I minister to her, I make this opinion of mine perfectly clear to her.

    “Oh...” she whines, voice reed-thin, faint. “My titty...”

    The truth is, her breast is mine. I am adoring it, worshiping her. In this very small place, concentrating on this focused area.

    Mai stares. She doesn’t just look down at me, doesn’t just ‘gaze’. She’s staring.

    Truth is, I perform magic here.

    To me, a woman’s body is a place where magic is revealed, the great temple of salacious and prurient intent, where flesh meets need and wonder abounds.

    Certainly I’m mesmerized by what’s in my hand, past my lips, on my tongue.

    “What are you doing...?” she sings, both delight and anticipation and fractious desire welling up in the tone of her voice.

    “I’m prestidigitating.”

    “Huh...?” she laughs.

    “I’m performing magic.”

    “On my boobie.”

    “Something like that.”

    She gasps.

    “You like.”

    “Blimey...”

    “Yeah,” I laugh back. “Let’s give you some more of that...”

    Between bouts of closing her eyes and looking extremely beatific, Mai continues to stare. As I do my stuff.

    “It’s like-” Her chest rises and falls faster...then she relaxes. “Other guys suck on my tits. But you...”

    I rise up and kiss her. Gently. Softly. Almost perfunctorily. “Is it the difference between one lover understanding your clit and another not...?”

    “Yes.”

    “I know,” I nod, going back to her breast, returning to the wonder there.

Mai Bailey: For All Kinds of Reasons, Chapter One

2011-12-25T04:12:00.023-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

My instructions were pretty clear. Nothing complicated. Simple.

    So as I enter the hotel room, after I’ve closed the door and walked towards the bedroom, I can hear that she’s followed these instructions.

    Music playing?

    No.

    Is the television on?

    Nope.

    And I hadn’t asked for anything cute, like having us begin this affair with a cell-phone conversation all the way through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hallway...

    But still, there are sounds.

    I stand still.

Yeah; I know those sounds. It’s possible to mistake them for something else, but within the context of this morning, I know precisely what they are.

    And moving to the bedroom doorway, this is confirmed: there on the bed, on the bed fitted with plain white linen, amongst a battery of matching pillows and shams, Mai masturbates.

    Spotting me, her eyes go wide, then narrow...and then she flushes, her chest rises and falls noticeably faster, she licks those lips of hers...and she winks. “Alright...?” she says/asks, the standard British mixed-use greeting framing the moment perfectly.

    “Hey,” I reply, taking in the sight. Or at least trying to. “Better than ‘all right’.”

    Her fingerplay increases, and as it does, she gazes down at her efforts, her knees knock together, her shoulders roll, her breasts swell, pierced nipples filled with silver posts shimmering...and she brings herself off.

    Me? I lean against the door-jamb. And stare.

    Back arching, Mai lets loose a long gasp, a sputtering, guttering gasp, her torso jerks, her toes curl...

    ...and then she halts.

    Entirely.

    Goes rigid.

    Right before she’s at it again, in motion, in full-motion, frigging away, one side of her mouth rising, coy, smug and proud in one expression.

    “Doesn’t look like you need me,” I whisper.

    “I don’t even bloody well know you, and I need you, you bastard!”

    I say nothing.

    “Get the fuck over here!”

    “In time,” I laugh. “In time.”

    She shakes her head, closes her eyes and goes at it all the more diligently.

    I remember when I first saw her. It was a pictorial. And my ‘Amazon Radar’ went off in a huge way.

    Not so much because she was ‘substantial’. More that she was tall and gangly and ridiculously fetching in a delightfully wonky way. A five-nine, lithesome filly.

    But in all honesty, it began with her voice.

    She’s Russian-by-way-of-England.

    So her accent is- Well, it’s something to hear. There’s the expected Britishness to it...East London, if you will, but then there’s the underpinnings of Mother Russia...

    I’ll tell you who she first reminded me of: a slightly-askew Icelandic Bjork, and Welsh Cerys Matthews.

    Then there’s a certain amount of ‘Betty Boop’ thrown in for good measure.

    What results is so unconventional, so utterly whimsical as to bring on a smile...even before she does anything salacious.

    The first time we Skyped, I had to remove myself from the conversation for a few minutes while I composed myself.

    “What’s going on?!?” she asked me when I final returned to the screen.

    “I’m besotted.”

    She frowned. “What does that mean...?”

    “It means that I’m charmed-beyond-charmed.”

    “Oh.”

    “You’re just so Goddamned lovely.”

    “Thank you,” she said, frown still in place...although it was being leavened by a smile.

    “Talk to me,” I said, taking in the sight of her expressive face.

    “About what...?”

    “Anything. Just talk to me. I want to hear you talk.”

    “You’re an interesting perv.”

    “No...I’m not,” I laughed. “I’m merely besotted.”

    Mai knew I wanted to fuck her. But she also knew...right from the start...that fucking her wasn’t what I most desired. And because I got under her skin, she allowed the exchanges between us to get far more ‘intimate’ than she normally would have, either as an adult performer, or as an escort.

    In fact, very little of what we shared was sexual. It was...not wanting to make you gag...spiritual.

    Which I believe is why she got on a plane and flew to Toronto.

One day and counting: An Erotica Adventure With Mai Bailey

2011-12-24T06:25:00.000-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Twenty-first Bit

2011-12-24T04:50:00.002-05:00

In getting there, I wrap myself around Cassie. Her navel spangles indent the soft flesh of my forearm as my hand holds her tight. The sharp edge of my other hand sweeps down her back, speed-bumping with every vertebrae until it gathers up the ejaculate where her buttocks begin...and then I take this and push it against her pucker. Once done, I take hold of my cock at the base, just between finger and thumb, and hold my still-seeping cockhead at her rear entrance. “OK.”

    “OK,” comes Imogen’s acknowledgment.

    “OK…?” Cassie wheezes.

    “Third time lucky,” I whisper to her, taking her weight from Imogen, feeling her begin to accept me in, feeling my glans capped by the strong muscles of her sphincter, breaking past this resistance, then the narrowest diameter of my shaft, and then, with her shoulders at my chin, as she leans back into me, her weight shifts and she’s descending now, taking me now, into her ass, into her wholly, the widest part of me, the thickest part of me, her rectum expanding to accommodate me.

    It is a slow journey, a careful journey.

    But with all this, even before she’s arrived, she’s fucking me. Before she’s settled, she’s moving on me. Writhing. Into another phase, no questions asked.

    Seeing this, Imogen wastes no time. “Perfect...” And so she goes back at Cassie, looking at filling her again. I can feel her enter, feel Onyx against me, feel the abrasion there, cockhead on shaft, rising up to meet mine, somewhere along the way, a confluence of cock so high inside Cassie, impossibly high in Cassie, rapturously high in Cassie.

    She is spread like a gymnast on me. Her thighs are splayed wide, her heels knocking against my shins from the outside, hitting me on an angle. Imogen is wedged there, between these legs, in the very corner, as close to Cassie as she could be, flesh on flesh, all this flesh pressing against me, layered on me.

    “Yes,” Imogen says, soft and low. “Yes...” she continues, thrust matching her exclamation, speed coming, momentum coming, all of it combining now, friction there, fields there, fucking her, fucking her, fucking her...

    “Yes!” comes Cassie’s compliance, unable to move, pinioned there, fixed there, between these two lovers, between these two cocks. “More, more more!” she squeals, sounding delirious. “Don’t you dare show me any restraint,” she declares. “Fuck me until I black out.”

    Imogen nods in her fury. She thrusts forward. I feel her abs against my arm, still coiled around Cassie’s waist; Cassie hold me there, hand glued to my wrist, at her side, her fingers plying my flesh, all the more contact between us, a spicey hidden contact that only adds to the wealth of emotions being generated between we three. I watch Imogen stare into Cassie’s eyes with this fury of hers. I feel her cock against mine, feeling her fucking her just as I am fucking Cassie too. In fucking her, she’s fucking me, and the same in reverse. Then her lids flutter, her eyes rolling as an orgasm takes her, and as she goes, she pulls Cassie with her. I feel the contractions, the pulses, the spasms that wrack Cassie, that are transmitted through her. She is one sexual cavern, two halves, each filled by cock, stretched by cock. So Imogen climaxes, takes Cassie with her, and as she sustains it all, her hand dives down, goes to its station, and she applies her fingers to Cassie, worships her clit, and as a final offering she fights against her own stature and shrinks, is tiny once more, tiny and suckling at Cassie, gathering up a non-breast and making its nipple hers, both hands in motion, her hips in motion, her cock certainly in motion, all this motion towards one end, one end only.

    Imogen leaves off for only a moment, just long enough for one final ragged sentence, the last thing that Cassie hears before she’s taken by unconsciousness some time anon: “I can live with that...”

    The lights go down, the curtain opens and there’s a cadre of dancers on stage, in a close-knit circle, all in that archetypal Fosse pose, hat in hand, gesturing as it’s being tipped, frozen there, elbow pointed, back bent, one knee high, heel of that foot off the ground, back arm tucked in tight. Stylized, black-garbed statues.

    And there, front and center, is Cassie. Her face comes up and it shines, beams into the audience, though she cannot see anyone.

    She cannot see anyone, but still, she is shining at us.

    She shines with us.

Two days and counting: An Erotica Adventure With Mai Bailey

2011-12-23T08:29:00.001-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Twentieth Bit

2011-12-23T04:49:00.003-05:00

I rub Cassie and she comes. Imogen kisses her and she comes. They fuck and she comes.

    There’s separation in the air. I can feel Imogen’s breath on me. “What a place, this is.”

    Cassie is, of course, speechless.

    “Sorry.” Imogen stops.

    Cassie slumps. But she still responds to my working Imogen on her. This is not a choice.

    “I’m going to keep fucking you. And later, I’m going to fit you up with Onyx. So you can really benefit from him. Between these two things will be a special place. Something that will be forever etched in your mind. No matter what else happens between us, this will be your prize.”

    As she returns to fucking her, I know of what she speaks. I know what’s in store.

    I can only smile.

    Never mind Sting and his tanric love, with Onyx it’s possible to sustain an orgasm until unconsciousness arrives. And beyond, actually. Into a kind of somnambulant/coma/dreamstate. It would make for an interesting study.

    Imogen doesn’t quite do this with Cassie, but close. Imogen is able to discern a lover’s capacity quite early with Onyx. She can tell what the woman can endure.

    With Cassie, as she suggested, she’s got a natural. She takes Cassie to that high-pitched place, where orgasms’ frequency lives, and keeps her there. She mixes it up a bit, offers her the occasional respite, but for the most part, keeps her in the air.

    Cassie, being the trooper she is, takes it all in stride. Endures it gamely.

    But there’s more.

    Picture this:

-My hands sandpapering Cassie’s nipples with workerlike Imogen’s. Buffing the peaked surfaces to a high-gloss. Oh, if she were lactating...

-Cassie, breaking off her kiss with Imogen, huffing and puffing through one of the gifted breaks, rest periods...and then twisting to me, the look of pure Love in her eyes just before she closes them again as she takes my mouth, the flavour of Imogen still on her tongue, and Cassie’s taste as well, as given to her by the same.

-Imogen, sparked by this, leaning and biting Cassie’s neck, gorging herself at Cassie’s throat, the tender skin there.

-And finally...

    Cassie reaches around her, both sides around her, and grasps my cock. The cock that’s been fucking her lumbar region, the small of her back, that tight band of muscle that ripples on her, she’s in such tremendous shape. She grasps me and with her fingers enwrapping me she begins to masturbate me, up and down, down and up, and as she goes, her thumbs ride roughshod over my glans, doing some shining of their own, of her own.

    How she does this, I don’t know. It’s not like she has the luxury of being able to focus on one thing. She’s locked in this articulated orgasm, she’s effectively making me via an extended kiss, and she’s fucking me with her hands, bringing me closer, ever closer with each thrust Imogen makes into her, with each swirl of her tongue against mine, with each march up and down my length.

    “It’s your cock inside me,” she explains, our mouths still close. “I’m going to make you come just as you’re making me come...your cock, by Imogen, in me.” A smile. No, a wry grin. “Symmetry...?”

    Fuck, I’m lost to her. There’s no resolve left in me. And Imogen knows this. She can see it in my face. It’s instinct to her. Contrary to the ‘norm’, nothing gets Imogen off quite the way me being affected by another woman does. Inexplicable, against the laws of nature... But then, we figure ‘Who studied law anyway?’ So she watches this, catches a glimpse of this, of all of this, and fucks on even harder, more pace, more friction, more fields...more orgasm.

    This means, of course, that Cassie too, redoubles her efforts.

    Me? I spurt.

    I spurt high on Cassie’s back, I spurt all over her hands, and as I do I groan a monster groan, no doubt heard out on the seafront.

    Before I can react properly...however that is...Imogen is in motion. “Perfect,” she says, pulling out of Cassie. She gets to her feet, grabs the woman under the arms and lifts her straight up. “Look at that,” she marvels. We do. I’m a mess. So is Cassie. At least the back of her. She’s sheets of cum, a vertical floodplain, migrating at gravity’s whim. “Just perfect,” Imogen adds, easing Cassie back down.

    I know where this is going. I’ve been here before.

    More precisely, I know where I’m going.

Three days and counting: An Erotica Adventure With Mai Bailey

2011-12-22T10:11:00.000-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Ninteenth Bit

2011-12-22T04:48:00.003-05:00

“You need this.”

    Cassie hears my words, but is otherwise lost to something else entirely. She’s lost to Imogen inserting Onyx, standing bedside, not far from her at all, one leg up on the bed, inserting one end of Onyx, the black replica of me, the double-ended dildo with the space-age properties, the Bringer of Bliss that makes all other sex seem, well, trivial.

    “You need this to soothe your insides. It acts as a balm. You’ll feel good as new in the morning. Hardly know we’d been fucking up a storm. At either orifice.”

    Cassie says nothing.

    She says nothing when Imogen is done, when the flaps are properly pressed into place, when Imogen goes to her knees, the cock swinging under its own weight, this no doubt sending tingles throughout Imogen, when Imogen moves to her, when she spreads Cassie’s legs, removes the distance between them entirely and enters her, when she drives into her, burying herself in Cassie...says nothing when her breath is gone once more, this time quite involuntarily as Imogen begins to fuck her, to create the friction that creates the ‘fields’ that make the endless orgasms possible.

    She says nothing until she begins to come...which is almost immediately.

    Imogen turns her head to me, not ceasing her movements one whit, no matter Cassie’s crying. “She’s a natural,” is what she declares, winking. “This oughta be interesting.”

    Cassie is anguishing over the rawness of what she’s feeling, quite insensate, really. Flustered beyond flustered.

    “Kiss her,” I say to Imogen.

    A smirk. “You want that?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “A lot?”

    A ‘you-must-be-kidding’ look from me.

    She shakes her head. “You’re such a romantic. Me fucking her isn’t enough for you?”

    “Nope.”

    “You need the poster shot?”

    I nod.

    “Should l I kiss her like I love her?”

    “If you do, I’d be grateful.”

    A smile. “That’s enough for me.”

    Cassie’s face is hers. Cradled in her hands, Cassie’s face is revered. Adored. Made into something to be worshipped; she makes her offering below, repeatedly. She cradles her and then, as her eyes are mine all the way, gazing at me resolvedly, she kisses her.

    They melt. They melt into each other, becoming one. Two faces, two mouths, two tongues, separate, anticipating but separate...and then they’re one. Then they’re kissing. Then they’re enjoying that prize that can be awarded anywhere, anytime. It’s what I love about kissing. It’s a form of lovemaking that you can do in the supermarket, for Godssakes. You can remind each other of the sex you had that very morning, loop mental replays as you kiss, in the way that you kiss .

    Of course, that’s not what’s happening here. Cassie and Imogen are fucking. More to the point, Imogen is fucking Cassie.

    And Cassie... Well, Onyx being Onxy...Imogen’s movements providing inch after inch of friction...and that friction doing its job, generating those darling fields, the electromagnetic ones that shoot delicious charges out, transmit all kinds of loving sensations...well, Cassie’s still coming. Cassie’s been suspended there, in mid-climax, and will remain so until Imogen desides to press ‘Stop’. Or not.

    They kiss and I have to sit. I lower myself to the bed, making sure not to disturb them anymore than necessary...though Imogen always quietly giggles at this, especially when she retells a scenario...stretching a leg around so that I’m behind Cassie. I allow the insides of my thighs to make contact with her, and when I do, she shudders, as if she’s been awakened from a dream. I feel Imogen’s hands on me, at my knees, tugging me forward. I’m scooched up close to Cassie, my balls against the crack of her ass, my cock tall, straining now, seemingly halfway up her back.

    They kiss and I peer around and watch. Imogen winks at me again, and as she does she inclines them both just so, just so I can see them properly. I’m afforded the best seat in the house.

    Cassie’s eyes remain closed. She’s singing into Imogen’s mouth as she comes, still coming, still squirming as her release goes on and on and on.

    My hands, my hands... I need to use them. Up they come, up to Imogen, to her breasts, and cupping them I use them as instruments. I take them and hold them and apply them to Cassie, nipple-to-nipple. Cassie jumps. And in jumping her orgasm is exacerbated. I move Imogen on her, rubbing her there, buffing her own non-breasts with Imogen’s über-breasts, both sets of nubbins fully engorged, stiffly distended.

    I can hear Imogen laughing. I can her her laughing though Cassie comes, thought there’s all manner of sexsounds filling the air. Must be the vibrations. Must be their proximity. Must be my contact.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Eighteenth Bit

2011-12-21T04:47:00.002-05:00

I feel anesthetized. My cock, still thrilled by every entry into Cassie’s ass, is beyond stimulation, I suppose. It is in that hyper-place, where everything has been put on hold. Sustained. Mine is to fuck, mine is to be that glue that binds. This, right now, the ‘this’ that’s unfolding on this room, this is about Cassie and Imogen. That’s the way our triads are. Moments become monopolized by two of our three. They’re monopolized, but that’s OK. It’s the way it should be. Sometimes the dynamic, the needs call for this. The ‘third’ is not forgotten. Hardly. It’s just a turning of the wheel, is all. And oh, the reunions. The vigour that is revealed when the two are ‘done’, and the third is invited back in. Oh, the thankfulness, oh, the love that’s expressed, the joy in having the person back once more. It’s worth the brief periods of isolation.

    I maintain my rhythm into Cassie, my cadence. That’s all I am right now. Rhythm and cadence. While they love each other orally, I am a metronome. Mine is to anchor.

    They come, they come... They come until they are both sated, as implausible a concept as it may have been at the beginning, it is very much the reality now. I watch them slump. Still licking, still kissing, but it is the after-time, when recovery must have its due.

    No words are spoken. But Imogen and I know what is next. She allows a slight tickling of my balls, a slight tugging on my straggling hairs there, but that is all.

    Nothing changes for me, nothing in my outward movements would give anything away, and yet everything has changed for me. I am now letting fall away the control, all the shunting-away of sensations, allowing the accumulated store of stimulation to have its due.

    “Oh...!” I moan, quite unexpectedly. This stirs the pair of them. I can see Cassie flex, wanting to see. “Oh...!” I gurgle, feeling everything rise in me. I am clamping, I am releasing, I am approaching orgasm. “FUCK!” I yell, and I’m slamming into Cassie’s ass now, my balls slapping against her as they rise, as everything slots into place, all the interior machinery that is the rest of me sexually, and as Cassie responds with a clenching of her rectal muscles I come, I begin to spray seed within her ass, sending surge after surge of cum into her, my orgasm feeling like it’s the blending of everything I’ve witnessed between them...magnified a kajillion-fold.

    In time, all things pass.

    In time, I’m quelled, settling down, rumbling to a stop. Shivering.

    Silence ensues.

    “Oh, Baby... Where’s my treat?” Imogen asks, easing me away from Cassie. “There it is,” she says, putting the pads of two fingers on Cassie’s tired and stretched sphincter. She does this as she licks at my cock. “So clean,” she purrs, taking home the mess that’s there. Her tongue is almost more than I can bear. She licks and she grinds, pushing hard against Cassie, a vise on her face knees in tight. “What did you take from my man, you wicked, wanton woman, you?” She pauses, holding my flagging cock up, up and to the side. “Oh... There it is. There’s what you took from him.” She ducks down again. “I think I’ll have to regain what’s rightly mine.” And with this she goes to Cassie’s ass and begins to suck me out of her. Pushing down on Cassie’s thighs she applies herself hungrily, vacuuming ejaculate out of her, oh-so-noisy, oh-so-nasty.

    I watch as Cassie’s arms release Imogen at last, falling to the sides. Utter capitulation.

Coming soon: An Erotica Adventure With Mai Bailey

2011-12-20T14:36:00.000-05:00

Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.

Beginning Christmas Day (!!!), a multi-part homage to stellar model Mai Bailey.

Food for the libido...and for the heart.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Seventeenth Bit

2011-12-20T04:45:00.002-05:00

Oh, how she commands Cassie’s pleasure. As I look on, Cassie comes down, floating under Imogen’s control. Imogen has not removed herself from the dancer’s quim, she’s not stopped, per se, but she’s provided her with enough relief from her tongual onslaught to recover.

    Everything slows. The room takes on the sensation of molasses. Time is stretched. Cassie’s chest rises and falls, her breathing regular. Measured. I watch as her tongue flicks through parched lips.

    “Again,” I whisper, and as the word breaks the silence I can see the complain on Cassie’s face, but it is too late, she’d been yanked on yet another descent, this one much faster than before, much more reckless, more danger to it as Imogen goes directly to the bullseye and has Cassie end-over-end almost immediately...but this time she sustains her orgasm, playing with her, toying, really, in the same way cat might with an injured bird.

    In the midst of this, I speak again. “Snowball,” is what I say, referring to the high school dance tradition, the call over the p.a. system, for a partner swap.

    Imogen is all giggles. “Yummah,” she says, off Cassie, pushing her ass into me as she goes. She looks over her shoulder, moxie all the way, and then spins away, to the side. “I think you should anoint her before you fuck her, Baby.”

    As Imogen grabs a pillow, anticipating my needs perfectly, I move forward. Cassie is now aware of our movements, though she’s had to stumble through her induced incogency. She watches as I crawl to her, glistening cock bouncing as I approach.

    “Where do you want me?” I ask, poking my glans against her lips.

    Her hands are still on the bed, clenched, as I can plainly see. She takes the head, her tongue twirling fast, remarkably fast. “Both,” she replies.

    Imogen stuffs the pillow under Cassie’s rump. “Greedy gal,” she opines, rumbling her comment. “I love that in a lover...”

    I fuck Cassies’ face, making her choke once. Cassie makes gagging sounds, but as I retreat she’s laughing. She watches as I drive into her cunt, up to the hilt in a second, sending a kind of reminiscent quake over her, a memory climax, just a hint of one, convulsing for a second or two.

    “Good,” I say, and pull out. We all watch as my erection is once more shiny, sloppy with Cassie now. I pull out and then apply myself at her shpincter, her pucker, and as Imogen moans I enter Cassie’s ass, plunging deep, one consistent, impossible plunge into her, up into her, a mavel before us, Cassie accepting me into her bowels, into the very deepest, darkest place.

    “Oh, Lord,” Imogen says, quite taken by the moment. “Fuck her a little Baby... Just a little right now, so I can watch properly, before I do the same to that pretty face of hers... Please...?”

    Hands on her hipbones, I fuck Cassie. I fuck her ass. In and out I move, the tightness almost unbearable. She feels beyond any words of description.

    I fuck her, and some time along Imogen sighs, and as her sigh fades she mounts Cassie’s face, climbing aboard, and as I watch her sitting tall she settles, begins to fuck the mouth, the tongue, begins to rut there, her cunt so very thankful for the accommodations Cassie’s applying.

    “Mmm...” is all Imogen says as she drops, drops back down, folding herself, folding her long torso so that her head disappears, is lost between the same legs I’m lost between, and she begins to reciprocate what Cassie is so generous with, both hands gone now, both hands applied to Cassie, one whose fingers are hooked inside Cassie, fingering her G-spot no doubt, rubbing the spongy patch on the front vaginal wall, the other digitalizing her clit, manipulating it as only Imogen can.

    Oh, what a wicked trio we are, all in wicked motion, all being given something terribly wicked by someone else as we play good neighbour and pass on this gesture of charity, but not before multiplying it just a bit, giving it our own distinct spin...only to discover that the same’s being done while we work this generosity ourselves.

    Cassie, I can only guess, is intent on paying Imogen back in kind. I say this judged by the way her hands grip Imogen’s ass, the way she impels her onto her face, more and more and more, visibly demanding in her grip that she bears down on her, Imogen’s full weight on her there, on her face, on her mouth, on her tongue. It is an effective repayment because Imogen is forced, far earlier than she would have preferred, to let loose what she’d been harbouring inside. Cassie weaves her own spell on Imogen, up to now the only one casting spells, and Imogen comes. The top of her head grinds into my groin, and she is a caterwauling now, the sounds muffled by Cassie’s muff, and as her climax roils her, Imogen I know is bouncing back this treat, licking, sucking, diddling Cassie just as assuredly as Cassie is applying so much sweet torment to the suitably sweet cunt that pushes down onto her, engulfing her face with the fleshy abundance that is Imogen’s cunt.

Round and round we go, back and forth, passing a hot potato, it seems, me the only one who’s not actually releasing. They’re traded-off salvos, one after the other, both of them together, sometimes one of them twice, a solo, then the other catches up and they do a duet, a soaring harmony that ends with them...well, with them going back to the beginning.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Sixteenth Bit

2011-12-19T04:51:00.004-05:00

She calms, quelling the torment inside her, returning to her diligence. She does not allow me to maintain my hold there, on her powerful hips, on that pelvic girdle that I’ve seen prove its potency on so many occasions, driving Onyx deep into a woman, bringing her off time and time and time again. Instead she places my hold on her underneath, to her breasts, to her needful nipples, pointing straight down, the tips of her hefty tits, swinging with every re-entry I make, counter-swinging as I take another run at her, gentle-yet-rollicking rhythm.

    I grasp her, I pinch her, I milk her nipples, trying to draw sustenance from her. She knows this. She knows what this means. This action of mine. This has become habit. Four of our triad partners are lactating: Victoria, Carmen and Charlie for ‘real’, and Sarah still locked in a sympathetic stage, milk flowing freely with her as much as the other three. We each feed from them. And it always begins like this.

    So as I fuck Imogen we’re lost in this ‘milking’, the symbolism, the subtext. And in this added layer of sexual expression she finds added stimulation: she comes once more.

    “I thought I was supposed to be the spoiled one!”

    Both Imogen and I look up.

    “I’m holding back on purpose, and she’s doing all the coming! Not fair!”

    “No one asked you for any restraint, Dearie. Besides; what makes you think it’s up to you when you come?”

    Cassie stares. Defiantly, I have to admit.

    “Cassie,” Imogen coos, “I’d like you to do something for me.”

    “What’s that?” is the reply, ‘wary’ now added to our host’s growing repertoire.

    Imogen’s head lowers back into action. Or in prayer. “Come ...”

    I have to watch this. It’s not just the orgasm. It’s the realization of how much control Imogen has over lovers, how she actually dictates their pleasure. This understanding is always a bit of a mind-fuck, sometimes fought madly by the woman, mosttimes taken as yet another gift. It’s a kind of subjugation, about as strong a one as we go in for; despite our admittedly adventurous tendencies, we’re hardly poster children for the S/M crowd.

    Cassie’s face is ecstatic. And yet it’s beyond the norm, beyond anything I’ve seen since we began earlier today. It’s the stationary equivalent of one of those G-force shots, where the pilot’s skin is fluttering, rippling cheeks and lips, teeth bared, eye sockets glaring. Motion has frozen her. The sensations Imogen’s imparting have frozen her. Disbelief, though her stare is at me, confirmation yearned-for from me, this paints her face an anguished crimson, as if she’s holding her breath.

    And then I realize that she is. She’s holding her breath. Some switch has been flicked and she’s now on auto-pilot towards auto-asphyxiation.

    What to do?

    Nothing. Because it doesn’t last. There’s a sharp intake of breath, like a stoppered scream and then she’s doing a Regan McNeil on the bed, in full ‘Exorcist’ mode, that unmammaried chest a bow, the arc of a circle, high into the air towards me, hands spiked to the imaginary tmiber of wood, in full exultation, climaxing at full throttle now, her pelvis a hose whipping about, her ass up and down off the bed, bouncing Imogen in time, making a ripple-that-becomes-a-tidalwave against me, and I send it back, and she smiles, somehow she smiles in all of this as her breathing renews and she’s wailing, wailing as she comes, as Imogen drives her over into the Abyss and Cassie tumbles down, wrapped in Ecstasy, spinning, somersaulting, rocketing her way through a release that she’s probably never imagined.

    Cassie comes. Cassie comes and Imogen continues to do what she’s doing to her, guiding her through the climax, tending her, ministering to her, applying the oral love that she’s so adept at. Imogen through all this receives what I’m giving her too, holding back her own release, letting it build, jeeping it in abeyance.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Fifteenth Bit

2011-12-18T04:49:00.003-05:00

“Hi.” Imogen kneels, reaches for Cassie’s hair. A tendril at her temple is tucked home. Fingers remain. “You’re our new friend.” she braces Cassie as the woman nods, and then, not saying anything else, she inclines herself, taking Cassie’s mouth, and there are squirms then, Cassies involuntarily grinding under me, against me, into and away from me as the kiss continues.

    Not a further word is spoken. Not for the longest time.

    Imogen kisses her, kisses her while she extends a hand for me, and we touch, this touch sufficient, and when the kiss has gone through its inevitable incarnations she stands, taking Cassie with her, the sound of sheeting water a lullaby tune, these women standing, Imogen pulling Cassie up, kissing her, kissing her still, Cassie dripping foam, bubbles streaking down her, Imogen placing Cassie’s hands on her, leading Cassie to disrobe her, to lift up on her jumper, to unzip the corduroy skirt, then with mashing hands Cassie undoes the bra, and stepping out of the bath she hooks her thumbs inside Imogen’s knickers, the two of them complaining now, inarticulate moans as Imogen is rendered naked, Cassie dripping, soaking the floor as they depart, kissing still as Imogen makes the final gesture and takes Cassie behind the knees and hauls her up, fully into her arms, bride over the threshold, through the ceremonial archway, out of sight, towards our lovenest.

    I sit here, listening. I listen, I recognize the sounds. It’s like being blind, another sense making up for the deficit, my hearing is so acute. And I know what each subtlety means.

    So does my cock, glans breaking the surface in splashy twitches.

    If I could, if I could do it with no sound at all, I would remain here while they made love in the other room and masturbate. I would jerk myself off to the sounds of these two women...one my Life-partner, the other a new partner, each with their own patch of my heart with their respective name on it...these two women fucking. I would jerk and jerk and jerk this knowing cock of mine until I came, sending yet more climax through the air, missiles that would land in spurtful dashes and dots, breaking the surface themselves, minuscule duck-farts , then as they re-surface, impotent as it were, they’d bob there in their milky, occluded state as they floated their disuse away.

    But I can’t. The sound would overwhelm what would be inspiring it, so instead I rise up as quietly as I can, grabbing a towel, drying off, moving across the ceramic floor to the plushness of the carpeting, their communion noises getting louder as I approach.

    Already it’s begun.

    I turn the corner and Cassie is flailing in place, in a crucifix pose, hands slamming into pillows on either side of her. The look on her face is one of abject bewilderment.

    Imogen is between her legs; in a typical Imogen fashion she has rotated Cassie’s hips back, hands pressing down on her hamstrings as she buries her face in Cassie’s cunt, bruising it in the process.

    Cassie is discovering why all of Imogen’s lovers would marry her in a second.

    Cassie is discovering Imogen’s status as cunnilingatrix, or whatever the equivalent is to fellatrix.

    Imogen feeds, and while she does she wiggles her ass at me. One hand comes from between her own legs and splits her labia for me, fingers glistening with either her own effluvia or her lover’s, I can’t tell which. But the message is clear, so I go to her, go to the bed, climb up, and while watching Cassie try to process the wonder that’s being bestowed on her, I enter Imogen, enter my home-away-from-home and see the domino effect that eventually reaches a helpless, hopeless Cassie as she thrashes about with the end result of my own actions.

    My hands go to Imogen’s hips. Now, Cassie is spare. Fit, muscular, but spare. Lithe. Imogen however, is an Amazon. Five-ten, one hundred and sixty-one pounds. She is nothing short of Xena with curves. Most of all, Imogen is curves. A bodacious 42-26-38 show of curves. I take her hips as mine, ramming into her, grinding out fuck-distance a half-foot at a time. (Looking to accumulate fuck-miles by the hundreds, a frequent-flyer, am I.) Her hips are mine as she eats Cassie, mine as her tongue works its magic, mine as she’s tossed into the Abyss, orgasm taking her, all dexterity lost for a moment as she comes, all freneticism on Cassie while she goes through this fit of hers, her cunt clenching and unclenching on me, gripping and ungripping me as the contractions wrack her, shudder her, collapsing her, mouth-on-quim, quite insensate for the moment.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Fourteenth Bit

2011-12-17T04:48:00.002-05:00

As I flick the liquid up towards her belly adornments, tiny splashed back at her, refired, this time with less velocity, less concussive a trajectory, once more she reverts to the theatrical, once more she makes the grand, showy gesture, once more she captivates me, once more my chest swells with emotion released:

    Both hands flattened, she cups her non-breasts, gathering my orgasm, making it come together, and when she’s pushed it into a central heap, just like sweeping with a wide broom, she scoops up what she can and while training her eyes on me anew, she greedily stuffs it into her mouth, her head back and forth, defiance and disbelief commingled perfectly, and she swallows and she swallows and she swallows.

    I watch her, watch her confirmation, watch this silent declaration that she belongs in this world, she’s one of us, a sort of vampire-test, a secret handshake acknowledged, and as she purrs there, working the cum at her nipples, I go to her, I waddle to her, my knees into her armpits, my still-sopping cock, flagging now, eager for more attention so that it does not die, my cock finds her mouth, and she opens wide and accepts me in, and finally her eyes close as she sucks me, as her tongue dances on me, as her hands work their magic once more, aiding in this effort to make me pristine.

    Darts of foamy water hit me in the chest. Her fingers skim the bath’s surface, circling, circling. She cups her hands and brings them to her mouth, inhales and then spits a stream at me, deadly, pinpoint, stinging me at my sternum.

    “Playful for a sleepyhead.”

    She nods. “How long were we drowsing?”

    I look at how her leg is draped across mine. Everything Cassie does has choreography to it. And I don’t mean that it’s premeditated. Or contrived. Just that there’s elegance. Grace. Style. Her calf is flattened there, on my shin: it appears monstrous. I’m in love . “No more than an hour.”

    “Felt like forever.”

    “We needed it.”

    “It’s the fresh air.”

    “It’s the fucking.”

    “Perhaps.” She grins. “You fuck like a favourite dance partner of mine.”

    “You fuck your dance partners? Cool.”

    “I meant that you fuck like he dances.”

    “You don’t fuck your partners.”

    “Most of them are gay. So, no.”

    “That include the women?”

    She rolls her eyes. “They’re mostly straight. But that never stopped any of us.”

    “That’s what I like to hear.”

    She thinks. “Probably nothing I could reveal to you that you haven’t already written about?”

    “Probably,” I shrug. “No...but then I imagine there have been some interludes... You’ve no doubt done some things...”

    She draws in a dramatic breath. “Now they’re gorgeous. My dancemates. Almost to a one.”

    The sound of a door clicking breaks the silence.

    “That would be her.”

    There’s a flush there on Cassie’s face. Hardly discernable, but it’s there nonetheless.

    “I left the door open slightly...”

    “That’s all it takes for me, Baby. That’s all I need. The smallest of openings.”

    I watch Cassie’s face as Imogen enters the bathroom, watch how she responds to the appearance of my partner. Such a mélange of emotions there, a fleeting range, almost everything imaginable. She reduces herself in size, shrinking as Imogen towers by the tub-edge.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Thirteenth Bit

2011-12-16T04:21:00.005-05:00

We stare at each other. We stare and we fuck, staring through our fucking, fucking through our staring. If not for the incessant releases she capitulates to...mostly stiffening quakes that leave her mute, or perhaps better put, issuing a deaf person’s incoherent glottal grunts...I’m sure she’d glaze over, her eyes would water, burn from the fixed concentration. As it is, she gets a reprieve, she blinks once through her palpitations, tiny rictus smiles tearing away the consistent expression of concentration, a wave of wonder each time, each time a climax rolls over her, turns her mummy-like before being allowed to relax once more.

    The heel of my palm acts as a squeegee for her sweat, clearing the pooling at her sockets, the stuff that remains after she’s rolled into a ball, chin-to-chest to spectate at her fingerplay, to witness me driving into her, my cock plunging in and out, her cunt accepting me then releasing me, a bellows, if you will, a fleshly, lipful bellows, only to fall back into the pillow, shaking her head. I sweep away the burning saline, smear it to the sides, noting the grin she tries to suppress through it all.

    When I come, when I finally come, it is not inside her, but this is not my choice. I To deposit an orgasm in a woman, is, for me, a terribly symbolic thing. Full of connotation, full of meaning beyond the obvious. But Cassie takes control here, and when she senses that I was about to come, when she’s able to discern that I’m on the brink, curling into a crunch she pushes me out of her, taking hold of me as she does, her hands on me, both hands on me, pumping me, wrists to the inside, the perfect putting grip, even the fingers, and so I fuck this textbook grip of hers, my hips ramming forward and back, forward and back, and I watch as the ribbons of cum shoot out, creamy arcs against the background of her tensing flesh, hitting her in the face, on her chest, her arms, coating her hands, making a dreadful mess of everything, she looking on with an open, joyous mouth, catching overspray, laughing as my climax expends itself, cock squeezed to the last drop, drained, not one freestyling sperm left to escape.

    Silence is what ensues, silence after this marathon, silence after we’ve fucked up our storm. There’s no small amount of shock settling over us, the shimmering dust of shock.

    Cassie looks herself over. “Christ!”

    “Yes, my daughter?”

    She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen this much cum since I was a teenager. Or since I was with a teenager.” She releases me, removing one plainly gloppy hand, raising it up. The ejaculate moves in response to her actions as a cobweb might, air blown across its path. Eyebrows up, she jokingly offers the mess to me.

    I bend in and lick at her little finger, taking the stringlike dollop on the concavity in my tongue. I close my mouth and suck it down, my own essence like escargot to me, a familar, exotic, briney treat, something that, by-and-large, does not get ‘wasted’ anymore, most often gets eaten. If not by partners, then by me. I swallow, watching Cassie’s face.

    “Lord, what do you do for an encore?” comes her whisper.

    I present her own ladened fingers to her own mouth. “I drink urine.” She licks a serving in, sucks on her hand, gulps. “I take it right from the source. I suck it right through my lover’s urethra, and I never waste a drop. Of course, it usually leads to cunninlingus...”

    “Be still my beating heart...”

    I take Cassie’s other hand, leaving my cock to waggle there, in its post-coitus confusion, no attention on it now, abandoned, if you will. I take this hand and I plane the cum off it, using my teeth as necessary to gather up the bounty, the considerable bounty. I’m not known as ‘Gallons’ for nothing.

    On she eats, a gentle murmuring the backbeat to all of this, her own syncopation, matching her heart rate, no doubt.

    I let down her leg, release her to the mattress. Sliding down, allowing gravity its due, the cum settles at the lowest point. Her hand falls to the bed. I go to her, begin at the point farthest south where I have stained her, the most southerly extent of this semen-trail. Dipping low I lap at her, a wildcat at watering hole. She makes hungry noises with her hand, ensuring everything is removed, lovingly consumed, each digit licked perfectly clean.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Twelfth Bit

2011-12-15T04:19:00.000-05:00

And now we’re here, spooning. Cassie has cried. She cried when I stood up, no warning at all, I stood up, not holding her, her own weight bearing down, her weight on my cock, her legs around me, arms clinging to me, vises, and then I took her ass in hand and I clamped her to me, going all the deeper in her as I strode to the bedroom, and as we went she cried, she came and she cried, soughing into my neck, the warm dashes of tears raining on my shoulders, streaming in cooling trickles down my back, some falling onto the carpet below, some onto her own arms, no doubt, but as she cried, as she came I marched, I brought her here, I laid her down in the middle of the bed, brought her left leg up and over, pinned her at the biceps with my palms, her hip pointing up so defiantly, that massive womanly hummock of flesh, and I began to drive into her anew, just as I am right now.

    This is connection. This is the vulnerable place. This is Cassie accepting me into her. But this is beyond sex, this is beyond fucking. All of that still surrounds us, is still part of what we’re engaged in...but this is our version of something exotic, something Eastern’. This is our version of something transcendent.

    I move into Cassie and with each stroke we are made all the more joined. All the more a conflation. She and I...with Imogen off in the wings, awaiting the moment, the right moment for her to make her entrance.

    I look upon Cassie’s face and see trust. I see adoration, I see utter capitulation. But I also see fear. The fear of being fooled. Of being tricked. Of opening up and being burned. I see the scar tissue, I see heartsore reminders of steps mistaken, painful paths trod and the after-effects of those journeys and how she’s valiantly attempted to leave them behind her, to carry on, to search out anew another chance. Wary of similar missteps.

    This is another chance. She and I, she and Imogen, she and us...this is a chance.

    I hoist her leg, the upper one, mantle her massive calf at my shoulder. This raises her hip off the mattress. She’s now a garment on a hanger. I’m the hanger.

    I move my left leg to the outside of hers, the one still on the bed, so I’m effectively straddling her. Cassie’s pelvis then, is still vertical, her back flat on the bed. So I’m fucking her sideways. As if her cunt ran horizontally.

    I fuck her like this and she masturbates.

    It’s strictly porno.

    Here she is, draped over me then, playing with herself, making her tiny labial bells ring, my one hand at her navel jewellery, matching her sound-for-sound, tinkling her, palm flat on her ridged belly, while my other hand...my other hand...?

    Well, fingers splayed on her ass, that tight-dancer’s-ass, making white welt-tattoos into her flesh with the discourteous pressure, my thumb is otherwise engaged. Indisposed. Inside her, to be precise. Up past the second knuckle, to be exact. Lost there.

    And Cassie’s other hand?

    She’s mercilessly tweaking her right nipple. Which, as I’ve been informed, is the more sensitive of the two. She raises her head periodically and allows a viscous stream of spit onto this object of her fixation, coating it...this, and reaching down and going inside herself, past my cock, somehow finding a way past, two bodies occupying the same space, and she retrieves cum, she retrieves her own stimulation, and she adds this to her finger and thumb and begins anew, tweaking, spinning, pinching, making the reddened nubbin wafer-thin...and then letting it blossom once more, recovering to her own repeated, blissful reception.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Eleventh Bit

2011-12-14T04:01:00.009-05:00

She stops feeding me, looks right at me. “Guys have been telling me I’m good-looking for years. But there’s something about the way that you say it... Or the context of you saying it... Or that I know that it somehow means something different when you say it...” A massive head-shake. “I don’t know. I can’t think straight. Sorry.”

    “Brain hurts?”

    “Yup.”

    “Eat, then. Eat, and then we’ll fuck.”

    She laughs. “Eating and fucking solves everything?”

    “Not by a long-shot. But when you’re doing them... There’s clarity, right? It’s not like your ability to do them is compromised by all kinds of mess, massy thoughts.”

    “True.”

    “Are you still hungry?”

    An eager child.

    “And do you still want to fuck? Are you still wanting to fuck the sheeting into strips of cotton, cum and lubrication and sweat and saliva all over the place? Maybe a few more tears, as well?”

    She melts. And starts to add to this melting with words.

    “Don’t bother,” I say, quickly nabbing another slice and cramming it In her surprised mouth. “Don’t think so much. Eat, now. Then we’ll fuck. We’ll do things that we should do together in preparation for being with Imogen later. Then, if you need, we can talk. I’ll listen and you can talk. Talk and talk and talk until you’re all talked out... And then we’ll start the whole cycle again if necessary.”

    And so the pizza is decimated, our bellies are full, and as the empty cardboard box is pushed aside, as the table is shoved away, Cassie slides off the couch, drops to her knees and stationed between my legs begins to blow me. She’s opened the bathrobe I put on just before the pizza arrived, flung back the sections of white terrytowel and dived in, taking me all into her mouth, no reservations at all, my cock pushing at the soft confines of her mouth as I swell, as I engorge with blood.

    I let her go, let her do what she must, allow her free-rein. Though we’re both sated in one regard, the pizza taking the edge off one hunger, another hunger’s been sparked, and so now she’s a virago on me, sucking my cock to its full state, her tongue manic, her fingers playing me as competently and as with much inspiration as any virtuoso might their favourite instrument.

    She blows me, Cassie blows me, and I want to let her go, just let her have her way, but I can’t. I can’t not out of control, not out of having to have things my way, not so much this as it is my need to see her, to share with her what we’ve led to with all our talking, with her phone conversation with Imogen, all of this.

    So I raise her up, not allowing any discussion at all, I raise her up and bring her to me, take her between my hands at the hips and lower her, lower her onto my cock and impale her there, her knees up against my front deltoids, clamped there, feet lost in the cushions of the chesterfield, and her arms come in, elbows to her torso and her hands come to my face and then her mouth is on mine and she’s riding me, she’s riding me, kissing me as she fucks me, riding me as our mouths match the fury below and we fuck for our dessert, we fuck as our next course, we fuck, we fuck, we fuck.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Tenth Bit

2011-12-13T04:46:00.003-05:00

“Why?”

    “Because you’re drop-dead gorgeous.” I finish off the portion. The crust is thick and chewy. It seems the perfect food for the sex we’ve been having.

    While I go to the box and separate another piece, I can tell that Cassie’s staring at me. When I’m ready to hand off, there’s a shaking head waiting for me. “What...?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

    “Nothing.” Her hands are fixed to her knees. Her feet cross, one on the other. Her toes rise and fall, a familiar nervous gesture. “Feed me,” she says. “Just for another while?”

    There are times when I wonder if the average male would be so enthusiastic about trading places with me in these various sexual adventures if he knew what twists and turns they seem to invariably take. When an emotional element is injected that demands participation, one on which the entire exchange tilts.

    This is one of those times.

    I’d go so far as to say that I doubt that most men, if they had a full ‘job description’ would sign on that line which is dotted. Because even if you can deliver the sexual goods...and let’s face it; these interludes demand a porn-star’s inventiveness, endurance and natural proclivity to boundless, super-charged sex...there’s more to any of what goes on in this world of Imogen’s and mine than just the sex. It asks so much of you on an emotional level. It asks more from you on an emotional level than it does on a sexual. Strange as that may seem, strange as it may seem through the hundreds of escapades I’ve chronicled over the past three years, the myriad partners, the list of celebrities, the endless combinations of co-workers, friends, complete strangers, middle-aged housewives to teenaged foreign-language students...in the end it comes down to the emotional. It comes down to the sex merely being a forum to get to something else. And I believe that this ‘something else’ is what inspires almost all the women who join with us. Beneath the sexual attraction, beneath the animal instinct, beneath the currency Imogen and I deal in, that is, unfettered lust, no complications, no inhibitions, beneath all of this is the unconscious understanding that a visceral emotional connection is possible. That’s the holy grail that our triad partners reach for. That’s what they unknowingly grab for. Not the unbridled sex, the stuff-of-fantasy lovemaking that we provide. It’s the emotional that tempts.

    And when the moment arrives when this element is presented, everything changes. I know. I’ve seen it enough times, been witness to its appearance on sufficient occasions to just ‘know’ when it’s finally being factored in. It’s like the temperature changes in a room. An unexpected gust that raises goosebumps on the skin.

    A favourite lyric says: ‘Sometimes when things change, they change forever...’

    Cassie, for all her chutzpah, for all of her wild-girl, in-your-face posturing, is just like the rest of us. Just as insecure, just as needful of reassurance. Of support. Of validation, I suppose. Yet she’s the one who ‘pulled’ me on the beach, picked me up not so many hours ago. That would lead most people to assume that she’s in control, she’s on her own path, she writes her own script.

    If only.

    “You doubt it, don’t you?”

    This time she does take just a nibble. I watch the pair of prominent front teeth mash a bit, and then she draws the pizza in. And she squints.

    “You doubt the ‘gorgeous’ comment.”

    A shrug.

    I allow myself a bite. We chew in tandem. I watch her some more, watch the normality of her eating. To me, this is when everything about a woman opens up. This is when the true appeal of a woman begins. Not during the sex. That’s something else entirely. This is what enriches any sort of connection, this is what makes it real. When you’re able to do the mundanities together. Watch them brush their teeth. Read a newspaper. Take a shit. These are the moments that Imogen and I wait for. These are the priceless moments that make our hearts swell. These are what make it all worthwhile for us, as unbelievable as that may sound.

    I watch Cassie eat, watch her take another bite, watch her digest what I’m suggesting as much as she does the same for what she’s eating.

    My celphone’s there, right beside the pizza box. While taking another bite myself I key in a number.

    “So soon?” Imogen asks on the other end of the line.

    “Yeah,” I say through the chewing.

    “Wow. Well, OK, put her on.”

    I hand the phone to Cassie. As she takes it, I devour the remainder of the slice. Cassie doesn’t say much. I know the conversation that’s ensuing anyway. All I’m going to hear from here is ‘yes’ and ‘no’, some nodding, some smiling, maybe even witness some tears.

    See, none of what happens in these trysts of ours is the stuff of zipless fucks. One-night-stands. Sex-for-sex’s-sake. Maybe that’s the most incredible aspect of this. It’s something else, behind all the fucking. The fucking’s just window dressing. What’s going on in this seemingly truncated conversation that’s unfolding is what these rendezvouses are all about.

    So I let the two of them complete the call, not saying a word myself. I go through another piece of pizza solo; I know I can’t help just yet, so I may as well carry on. I know that Imogen would insist I do this. ‘Keeping things keeping on’, is how she refers to it.

    A simple ‘Bye’, and a beep on the right button and the phone is down and Cassie is staring at me again. “Guess I’m stuck with you guys, huh?”

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Ninth Bit

2011-12-12T04:45:00.004-05:00

“Diddle yourself.”

    “I beg your pardon?”

    “Diddle yourself. Play with yourself.” I take a hand away from me and apply it, make her start the action on herself, rub her fingertips on herself.

    “You demand a lot.”

    I shake my head. “I do. But that’s not all. Because when you’re good and ready, when you’ve had me this way, when you’re ready to call it a day, I want you to stay where you are and take me up the ass. I want you to slide forward and slip me out of one hole and into the other. I want you to fuck me with your ass. I want you to make me come in your ass. In your bowels.”

    She nods, wriggling and rotating. “I could get used to your demands...”

    It’s a shower we want. A long, hot shower. The water pressure sufficient to wash away the shit that pours out of her ass, wash it away, into the tub and down the drain.

    This is trust, this is un-selfconcsiousness at its utmost. Both of us standing there, in the suitably sizeable bath stall, me holding Cassie, reassuring her, cooing in her ear until even if she’d wanted to she couldn’t hold it in any longer, and it shoots out of her, the cum, the shit, everything all at once, but the shower jets are strong and it’s gone quickly, over us, off us, down the drain, and as we kiss again it’s a memory, no smell, all of that gone too.

    Unwrapping a new bar of soap I apply it to her buttocks, running it up and down, leaning into her, chalking it along her curple, the crease between her cheeks, and then I go to my knees and as I apply my mouth to her vaginal lips I press the soap to anus and rub, soap away the detritus, sucking on her clit, making her squirm, making her sing, and then she’s spinning, spinning about so I can see her ass, and her arms are up now, her hands flat on the tiling and I’m sweeping my hand on her, clearing away the soap, making it merely wet flesh, and then the bar drops to the tub floor with a resounding thunk! and my fingers pry her open and there’s her brown pucker, her sphincter, that just-fucked bum of hers and I’m at her, my tongue at her and as I impale her she quakes against me and her anus opens, and my tongue goes into the lingering foaminess and I’m fucking her again, in and out, in and out, repeatedly, gorging myself on her ass, and she’s screaming now, she’s screaming as I ream her, and as soon as I’ve made her come, as soon as I’ve so-cruelly made her come like this I’m back on my feet and my cock’s at her, at her cunt once more so that she’s compressed between me and the wall, the hardness of the wall and the hardness of me inside her and I fuck her anew, fuck her standing just like this, the steam, the heat, the water, all of this and us, joined, the slapping, the slapping, the sex between us and of us...

    She signs for the delivery, says a perfunctory thanks and closes the door. When she turns, she’s grinning from ear-to-ear. The thin, white kimono shimmers as she walks, heading for the couch and the low table before it.

    “You always hungry?”

    “When I’m dancing or when I’m fucking. Especially when both conspire to happen concurrently.”

    “You love your food.”

    “Yes, I love my food. Come on. It’s going to get cold. I can’t believe they insisted on putting the pizza box on a tray. A silver one, at that.” She opens the lid, closes her eyes and sniffs. There’s that beatific look again.

    This woman, I could love.

    “Did you order one for yourself too?” I ask, snatching the box from her, hip-checking her as I sit. As she fakes being jostled, I rip off a slab, bring the massive piece to my mouth. I stop and check out my dinner-mate; Cassie’s making salivating noises beside me. In fact, she’s got a stupendous dribble going on, making like a limp bungee cord from her chin, blowing in the wind. “Cool trick. Want a prize for it?”

    She slurps it back home, licks her lips and nods.

    I move closer to her, feed her the slice. She feigns a tiny nibble, then takes half the damned thing in one bite. “Now that’s an even better trick,” I concede. “You might want to finesse that a bit and take it on the road. Could be quite be a fortune in it for you.”

    “Would I have to get naked?”

    I think this is what she says. It’s hard to tell; she’s munching hard on a full mouth, she might have said ‘Did you know I’m an alien?’ “Not necessarily, but it helps. They don’t normally have stunt-fellatrixes that just do a fully-clothed guest appearance blow-jobs and then leave. Of course, you may start a trend. Maybe there are all kinds of women out there who have certain ‘oral’ abilities who aren’t comfortable with nudity. Can’t imagine why that would be the case with you.”

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Eighth Bit

2011-12-11T04:44:00.002-05:00

Cassie comes and she arches her back in a perfect impersonation of mine, a mirror image, countering it though, in completely the opposite way, presenting herself to me as she climaxes, accepting everything I have to offer her in this moment of sublime transcendence, her vaginal muscles spasming wildly, no pattern there, no rhyme but plenty of reason as I suckle her through the orgasm, wave after wave until I ease away, rise up to look at her in her recovery, face flushed, activity under those makeup’d lids similar to REM, the rapid eye movement, not the band, the dance done in that most frenetic of nightstates.

    She opens those eyes, licks her lips and swallows hard.

    “Yeah,” I say, and before she can respond I’m off her, nipples abandoned, out of her, cunt abandoned...and as she whimpers, pleads pathetically I return to that cunt, this time with my hands at the back of her thighs, pushing them back, opening her quim to me, that now-reddened quim to me, and I am on her once more, in her once more, but a tongue now, not a cock, my nose on her clit, my mouth on her gash, that puffy slit of hers, the engorged labial folds, wrinkles made taut by her excitement, such a soppy mess there between them, all manner of effluvia pooling, rivulets coarsing down, down the abrupt smoothness between her cunt and her sphincter, a clear stream of what we’ve created together. I lick it up, drink it up, clean her up, adore her in yet another way.

    I think of Imogen, Imogen my love, my partner, myself, and I use this thought to inspire me, as I eat Cassie, knowing how God-like Imogen is to our lovers, how enraptured she can make them, spending time at their cunts, making them come at will, this most natural of cunnilinguists with the most blessed of tongues, the dexterity of an artist, a genius, a Heaven-sent gift to all women, all cunts, all clits. Hers is but to adorn our ‘thirds’ with this process of beatification, and she does it so magnanimously...

    I think of Imogen as I eat Cassie, Cassie a mass of squirming woman, unable to lie still under me, the stimulation is too great, Imogen’s reliable tutorship of me too proficient to withstand, and so I am this deadly succubus on her, using her cunt as a succulent meal, devouring her, taking away ounce after ounce of sustenance with each lapping of her, taking away more and more resistance with each hoovering of her insides, with each worrying of her clit, so that in the end there is no resistance at all, her hands are taken away from my temples, I look up to see her grasping the headboard once more, holding on for dear life while I drain her, drain her of all anima, wanting her to be rag-doll useless before I will even entertain the idea of stopping.. I want her all fucked-out, fucked-out and then some... And then, when she thinks she’s safe, I’m going to ask the impossible, I’m going to ask her to fuck me.

    Heaven help her.

    I find a way to snuggle in, my knees into her armpits. Cassie’s groggy, hardly cogent at all.

    I place my cockhead at her lips.

    She opens her eyes.

    Her lips part and I can feel the snakey tip of her tongue at my peehole.

    “Just a little,” I say.

    She complies. Her eyes come around, open a little more, clarity increasing. She pulls back. “You know I’ll blow you good and proper.”

    “I do now.”

    She shakes her head. “No worries. I love fellatio. You’ve just caught me at a low-ebb.”

    I get forceful and push forward, cramming her mouth. Then I just as quickly withdraw. “Sorry.”

    “Quite all right.” She takes me in hand, both hands. She pushes down on my foreskin, showing off my glans, purple and bulbous. Shiny.

    “Looks like yours.”

    “Do you like mine?”

    “I love it. It gets so angry.”

    “And my jewellery?”

    “I was tinkling your bells constantly. Couldn’t you tell?”

    “I was a bit indisposed. Sorry.”

    I take control of my cock again. Beat-off at her lips. I stop, gaze down. Her hair has splashed all about, rising up out of harm’s way, off the pillows. “Ride me? Fuck me?” I slide down, slide down quickly, slide down and roll her over onto me, my cock searching for its new favourite home, banging against her, against her entrance.

    “Oh, all right then...” she says, rising up, rising up slowly, taking me into her as she hovers there, looking down on me, a very stupid grin on her face, a very stupid and utterly bewitching grin on her face, making me want to be inside her more than anything else in the entire world right now and so I am, there I am rising up into her, my hips bucking upwards, wanting her now, demanding her now, pulling her down onto me, watching her body writhe in its migration onto me, taking me into her, well up into her, at her throat into her, and then she’s gone from migration to mission as her hips sway, as she begins to milk me, rising up, tall in the saddle, palms on my chest, fingers and thumbs on me now, tweaking nipples, jouncing on me, fucking me, fucking me.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Seventh Bit

2011-12-10T04:42:00.004-05:00

She wipes the sweat from her eyes using the back of her hand, her knuckles, fingers spread as a baby’s might be, gripping with no purpose.

    “Here,” I say, licking away the salt.

    Her hands go to my hips. She tugs me forward, though there is nowhere to actually go. I cannot be any deeper inside Cassie. I would have to inhabit her body for this to be possible. I would have to inhabit her space. Or she would have to engulf me, all of me, making me disappear entirely. Still, she demands me on, a full-bore C.A.T. effect implemented, her hips rockered back towards her, throwing me forward. Her head snaps back.

    “Hits the spot huh?”

    She grins. “My clit is getting a workout to match the one my vag is getting.” She pinches my rump skin. “You’re as fine a lay as any.”

    “Back at you.”

    She hugs herself through me. “And we’re only at the beginning...”

    “Indulge me?” I ask.

    “Anything. You want my ass?” she laughs, making as if to accommodate.

    “Thank-you, but not yet. No, it’s nothing like that... I’d just like to...Well...” And with this I make my back into a bow, my knees providing the necessary anchoring, curling up into a ball, no small feat for a man almost six-three, and I find a nipple and I suckle. I suckle as if it is the nubbin at the end of the most hefty breast I’ve ever fed at, as if it’s Sarah in the midst of her phantom lactating, her sympathetic lactation she offered Victoria last year as a lover’s gift, I suckle there as if my hand is overwhelmed by the mammary and I have to fight to keep the mass under control.

    “You sweet, sweet man, you.” I feel Cassie kiss the crown of my head. “I can ride you, you know. I can be on top and feed you, just like this...” Her breath is jagged, coming in sharp inhalations. Desperate out of nowhere. “Fuck ...”

    Non-breasts, but nipples like pecans. And as she maintained, sensitive beyond belief.

    “I want to make you come.”

    She laughs. “Too late! Been there, oh-so-done-that . You’re quite, quite thorough. I’m curious to see what kind of a teacher your Imogen is.”

    “I mean just by doing this. Nothing else. Just you lying here, me inside you but not moving, you just letting me suckle...”

    “I’m game,” she says, her hand caressing me, fingers in my hair. “Give it your best shot. Can’t say it’s ever happened before, but you never know...”

    “No,” I say, going to the other breast, running a pointy tongue around the perimeter of her aureole, flicking at the distended peak in the middle. “You never do.”

    My love affair with breasts has meant that I revere them. No amount of time spent revering them is too much. Many are the nights when I fall asleep at a lover’s breast. This also means that something about this passion of mine transfers to the woman I’m with. My fervour is admittedly infectious.

    So it comes as no surprise to me when I bring Cassie off.

    Can’t say the same for her.

    One finger enslickened with saliva, running circles around the nipple not being suckled, my mouth a vacuum on the one that is, my tongue doing double-duty... All of this combines to create this irresistible force against which Cassie’s immovable object is summarily flung across the room, no match at all for this laser-accuracy fixation of mine.

    I barrel her down the narrow corridor towards release, sucking, stimulating, loving her nipples, really loving them, and as I do I can feel the contractions on my cock, feel her cunt grip me, not in a voluntary sort of way, but in a decidedly unconscious expression of capitulation, increasing in intensity as I suckle on, pushing her, pushing her, harder, harder, faster, faster, on and on and on and on...

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Sixth Bit

2011-12-09T04:41:00.003-05:00

“I was born in Kingston. Just outside Lewes?” While I generally can’t stand the interrogative uplift in tone when someone’s making a declaration, Cassie’s use of it adds to her beguiling nature. Her charm.

    “Been there. Charming village.” We’re riding the lift to her room. It’s big enough to fit a pool table in.

    “I usually stay with my parents when I come to Brighton.”

    “And this time...?”

    “They’re re-decorating. And I’m only in town through tomorrow afternoon. Thought it might be easier this way. And that I deserved the treat.”

    “Here, here.”

    People get off half a dozen floor below hers. We watch them leave.

    “What do you like?”

    “Everything.”

    “I meant in regards to sex,” she says.

    “So did I.”

    She turns to lean against the wall. She’s drawn one knee up so that the sole of her sandal is on the other shin; her robe splits and reveals a heavily-muscled thigh. She watches my reaction, takes in the sight of me taking in the sight of her, and she swells, visibly swells with pleasure. Pride. Everything. “Right here, right now.”

    “Oh, I get it,” I say, rubbing my chin. “Another game. OK: ‘Right Here, Right Now’ by FatBoy Slim, aka Norman Cook. Hit Number One in both the UK and US charts. Do I get the bonus marks?”

    We arrive at her floor, the bell rings, I begin to wave her out.

    “Did you just turn me down?” she asks, mild incredulity all over her face. (Shot through with playful delight, to be honest.)

    “The first time I fuck you, I’m going to nail you into the mattress. Leave an archeological site worthy of a front-page shot in The Sun. Boring as it may sound, it’ll be strictly missionary.”

    “Wasn’t that an Aussie film from a few years ago? Remade with Richard Gere and Jennifer Lopez?”

    She finally exits the lift. She may be exaggerating her gait, but she sashays as she goes. I hang back far enough to watch all that there is to see of Cassie. There’s a lot.

    “Preliminaries?” she sings to me.

    “I’d prefer to loop back,” I reply. “If you don’t mind. I’d kind of like to get in a few body-wracking orgasms first. Then I’ll spend a few hours bringing you off orally. You’ll be so numb after a while...your quim, your ass... You’ll need another good fucking after that, of course.”

    “Of course. Female superior?”

    “Always believed that. But then I also believe in reincarnation, the progression of the soul, so it’s a moot argument.”

    She smirks as she looks over her shoulder. “Doggie?”

    “Of course.”

    “Are you into gymnastics?”

    “Nothing could be finer.”

    She slides the passcard though its gate. “Anal?” she asks, her turn to sweep me through.

    As I pass her I bend and buss her forehead. “Yes, please...”

    The door clicks behind me. I head for the window, but I’m brought short.

    “Strip, then.”

    I don’t turn. I gaze out at the vista. My Docs are unlaced, removed. The socks follow quickly. Off come my black Levis.Then my white cotton dress shirt. My uniform of choice. All of these items land on a bedside chair, falling softly. My briefs are last to go.

    “Nice ass...”

    I twist to see her. “Thanx. Coming from a dancer...” She stands there, naked as me. She’s let her hair down, the hair I had no real inkling of, the hair that now drapes past her shoulders, right down to her waist. This swoosh of honey-walnut, and then nothing between her legs. Though she’s not taken off that much clothing since the beach, short of her wrap, her body revealed in a completely different light appears changed. Altered. Delineated.

    Still, unveiled this way, no props, no distractions, it’s exactly what you’d expect of a professional dancer. Lean. Not an ounce of fat. And for a muscle aficionado such as me, she presents such a feast of sights... The calves, the quads, the rippling abs, the solid shoulder girdle, her posture, suggesting enormous discipline and conviction and perseverance.

    “Shall we?” she asks, strutting to the bed, her entire body a convergence of shape and contour and muscle. She throws back the covers. Still bending, she peers up at me.

    Silence.

    “Something wrong?” I ask, stroking myself.

    “I think I’m going to cry.”

    I look down at my nearly-concrete cock. “Have you two met before? Is that what’s with the emotional reaction?”

    “Oh,” she says, dropping to the bed, looking decidedly weak-kneed, “if we’d met before, I wouldn’t have wasted any time down on that damned beach.” Not taking her eyes off me, not for a second, she shuffles over to the middle of the mattress. She grabs a pillow, shoves it under her ass, splays her feet, raises the better part of her thighs up and grabs onto the headboard, the heavy carved-oak headboard above her. “Shall we?”

    “Say no more.” I mount the bed, and then, in three crawls forward I mount Cassie, aiming my cockhead at her with instinct alone, settling in on my elbows, divining her cleft, a certain charming clumsiness applied, her smiling at the lubberly gesture, not wriggling hardly at all, containing herself, watching me, watching my expression as I loom above her, as I hover there, my glans finally finding her aperture, her slickness, pushing into her, feeling her open up to me entirely, her body accepting me in just as surely as her mouth rises up to meet mine and we join there too, my cock into her cunt, her tongue into my mouth, lips and teeth joining, sexes conflating, organs invading, organs accepting, pushing, pushing, driving up, swimming, cavorting, all the myriad forms of gallivanting, my size accepted into her, her mouth accepted by mine, deeper into her, knees up, thighs up, heels of feet on small of back, urging my ass forward, my cock deeper into her womb, the fucking begun, my fucking of her begun, the smile in her kiss begun, everything combining in a most excellent mélange that has its own score, its own soundtrack, one of disbelief and complaint and needy demand and epithets and growling and roaring and squeaking and banging and shuffling and everything sexsounds can be when two people get together to see what their mutual animal attraction is made of.

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Fifth Bit

2011-12-08T04:40:00.003-05:00

“Cool. But you’d already decided to grant that. That’s not a prize. I was thinking something as a result of me getting these guesses right.”

    She goes for a handful of onion rings, reaching out, eyeing me all the while. “You get this one right, and I promise you I’ll make it worth your while. My word on it.”

    “OK. You’re a dancer. You’re in a show right now. In London.”

    “Go on...”

    “I’d say you’re in... ‘Fosse’.”

    She says nothing, but once she’s stuffed the remaining onion rings in my mouth she rolls her shoulders so as to create a hollow, a shelter with her body, and her hands dip and she pulls her bikini bottom fully to the side and sits there, waiting.

    I chew. I stare at her and I chew.

    “You have to look,” she insists. “It’s not a prize unless you accept it. And under these circumstances, you have to look in order to accept it.” Pause. “So look...”

    I relent, allowing my eyes to take in what she’s presenting me.

    Cassie is completely shaven. Denuded. There is no hair on her, about her at all. For someone with such a thick head of hair, eyebrows so striking they’re hearty exclamation marks, to witness all this skin barren of pubic hair... Well, I’d have expected her to be hirsute. As thick as a glade of trees. Coarse. Dense. Bushful. But she’s not. She’s pink, entirely pink, the same ochre pink as her tongue.

    With silver.

    The same filigreed, baubled silver as at her navel. Rings and discs and balls. Shimmering and glinting though she’s created a safe shadow cavern over her crotch. I can still spy her jewellery.

    I can peripherally see her arch those brows, asking me if I’ve seen enough, and then she accepts my silence again and returns the garment to its normal status. She takes back the final dangling portion of onion ring and carries on eating. “You must be psychic.”

    “I prefer to look at it as ‘hopeful presumptuousness’. Even if you weren’t a dancer, that’s what I’d want you to be, and ‘Fosse’ is the show I’d want you to be in.”

    “Seen it?”

    “No. I’d love to, but no. Too little time. We’re always busy.”

    “We?”

    “Imogen and me.”

    “Girlfriend?”

    “Yup. Problem?”

    “Nope. Beauty?”

    “Yup. Bi?”

    “Of course. She?”

    “Resolutely. The most renowned Sapphic cunnilingist in Sussex. East or West.”

    If that brow arches any higher, it’ll have to have aviation warning lights attached. “Picture?”

    “Sure,” I say, hauling my wallet out from my back pocket.

    She accepts the photo from me. “Gorgeous. Boobs?”

    “Yeah...”

    “I love boobs. I’m content with not having them, but I still love them.” She looks up at me. “You guys fuck around?”

    “On each other? No. We’re a team.”

    “All the time?”

    “Depends. No rules. But we don’t ‘fuck around’. It’s all above-board.”

    “Where is she right now?”

    “At work.”

    “Call her.”

    I flip open my cellphone, key in the choice on the pad. Autodial clicks in. It rings once. Imogen answers. I hand it over to Cassie.

    “Hello. No, it’s not your man. It’s a new friend. Cassie. Hello, Imogen.” She carries on eating. Gesturing me to give a hand with a particularly reluctant piece of fish.

    “We just met. He’s a doll. We’re down here at the seafront. Eating fried foods. Clogging our arteries. I know, I know! Actually, we started with ice cream. No, there’s no rule...”

    She winks at me. A hand wanders surreptitiously back between her legs.

    “I’m going to fuck him. Or maybe he’s going to be the one doing the fucking. He seems quite insistent about that part of it. Is that OK? No, not really. I’m not really asking your permission. You’re welcome.” She looks over towards the hotel. “Probably all afternoon. You busy for dinner? Good. We’ll call later. Good. Oh,” she adds, blinking once, sighing, then smearing her fingers cross my lips. “Any pointers? Tips? Insider information?”

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Fourth Bit

2011-12-07T06:58:00.002-05:00

I’m supposed to be on my lunch. An hour. Sixty minutes. That’s all. I quickly phone a co-worker, one with whom I’m sympatico on this topic, and I tell her that I’ve been waylaid. She laughs and agrees to look after the library clients that are due for a shopping spree at the book shop that employs us both.

    So instead of heading back to the shop, I’m sitting here on Brighton Beach with Cassie. Watching her munch fish and chips. And onion rings. And a small helping of scampi.

    “Thoughts?” she suddenly suggests. “No lies, remember...”

    Though her voice lulls me...the truly dulcet tones quite dangerous, even deadly given the wrong/right circumstances...and I find I have to stir myself back to cogency. “I’d like to be fucking you right now.”

    There’s the faintest of electrical charges shooting through those eyes of hers, and then she pouts. “What, no ‘making love to you’? So you’re just a brute with brutish needs. How disappointing.”

    “I could see making love to you as well,” I quickly counter. “But you asked what I was thinking. I was thinking of fucking you. I was thinking on what it would be like to fuck you.”

    “And...?”

    I stare into the blue distance. Off into the horizon.

    “Come on,” she says. “No editing. The truth.”

    “I’m incredibly turned-on by the fact that you’re flat-chested.”

    “So you’re a boob-man?”

    “A certified, card-carrying member of that club.”

    “Well...There’s certainly no way to hide my truth,” she laughs, jiggling her chest, effecting no movement at all, save for her torso. She looks at me plainly. “Turned-on, huh?”

    “I just want to suckle you right now. I just want to use my tongue on you, I want to feel what you feel like. I... I...”

    “It’s the lure of the exotic.”

    “I suppose.”

    “Thanks. For being honest.” She nibbles on her halibut, gnawing on a crunchy bit. “They’re sensitive. My nipples. Most guys assume that because there’s nothing to hold onto, hardly anything to squeeze, they can forget them.”

    “Blunt-brained louts.”

    “Indeed!” she laughs. It’s a hearty laugh, one that is as entirely genuine as everything else I’ve sensed about Cassie so far. And just as dangerously intoxicating.

    “Hanging, drawing and quartering... No punishment’s too severe for them.”

    “I think I might just let you sweep me right off my feet.”

    “Oh?”

    “There are far worse places to be, I’ll tell you that much.” She affects an abashed pose. “You’re quite the gentleman.” She accepts my silent reply. “I never grew. They just never happened. My boobs,” she adds by way of explanation.

    “I figured. Didn’t think you were talking about those dastardly men with no tact and no sensitivity.”

    “I’m the one with the sensitivity.”

    “I know!” I cry, á la Monica on ‘Friends’. “I am taking notes,” I add. “I’m a writer, after all.”

    “Oh? And what do you write, when you’re writing, Mr. Writer?”

    “Novels. Screenplays. Erotica.”

    Her head snaps up.

    “I’m under contract to Playboy. And I’m featured regularly in other men’s magazines.”

    She takes forever to eat a chip. Watching me, watching.

    “And you? What do you do for a living?”

    “Guess.”

    “Oh, I know what I’d guess.”

    “Come on, then! Give it a go!” She wriggles about, changing her position on her blanket to sit cross-leggged. She does this with ease.

    I take in the sight of her. The grace with which she moves. Her flexibility. Her poise. Not to mention those legs. Their shape. Their strong contours, the fullness. Her delicate joints, the contrast between them and the fullness of her muscle bellies. Involuntarily, I gulp. “You’re a dancer.”

    A great big smile. The kind a kid beams when presented with something wholly unexpected.

    “I’ll go one step further.”

    “A gambling man,” she says, going all the more incandescent. “I like that.”

    “But what’s the payoff? What’s my prize?” I ask.

    “See that hotel over there?”

    I turn to take in the sight of The Grand.

    “That’s where we’re going to be in about an hour.”

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Third Bit

2011-12-06T04:29:00.001-05:00

The mound of my ice cream dwindles, and then is gone. She has to begin working the remainder hard, fishing inside the cone to draw it out. Still she gazes at me, still she says nothing, still the contact at my hands, at my foot. “So you’re telling me you believe in predestination...? Fate?”

    “Absatively.”

    “To what end?”

    I shake my head. “Couldn’t tell you. I’m not omnisicient. But I do know that it’s all for the best. Even though it may not seem so at the time. I don’t think there are ‘good’ things and ‘bad’ things that happen to us. Just ‘things’, things that are more or less savoury at the time, things that make us happy or less happy at the time. Often we can’t tell the ‘benefit’ of the things that happen to us. We just never know.”

    The crunch of her biting down on my cone is a lightning strike. Shattering whatever calmness I’d fashioned. She continues to devour it, munching quite diligently, quite efficiently, and yet she’s not demure about it; this gal has an appetite. I’d love to see her with barbecued spareribs and roasted corn-on-the-cob.

    Into her mouth the remnants go, and in the process, she angles things through me, the head-tilt adjusted slightly to accommodate, more chewing, more squinting, more forward lean. She swallows, I can feel her gulping...and then as she has me drive the nub end into her mouth, she’s done. She looks down at the serviette waving at the lowest portion of my hand.

    “Allow me,” I say, sad in extricating myself from her sustained contact with my one hand. But she doesn’t let go of me entirely; she keeps my other hand in hers. I lick at the pointy end of the napkin and go to her mouth, nabbing the expected mess, tiny as it is. She wears hardly any makeup at all, a smattering of lipstick, maybe some sun-protective foundation on her cheeks. The only aspect of her face that’s ‘done up’ is her eyes, and I have to admit that it’s tough for me to tell, because now I’m trying to avoid them.

    “We both know there’s a more effective way of doing that.”

    “Of course.” I’m taking waaaay longer than I need to. Far longer.

    “I bet you’re especially thorough. Like a cat with her kitten.”

    “That would be correct.”

    “What kind of man allows a complete stranger to eat his pudding?”

    ‘What kind of woman eats a complete stranger’s pudding?”

    “You first.”

    “A man who is struck,” I reply. “A man who is intrigued. A man who, for a fleeting second senses convergence and submits wholly to the process, hands up his fate to Fate and allows it to do with him as It will. And you...?”

    “The same, really. With some animal attraction thrown in for good measure.”

    “Oh...?”

    “We’re adults. I saw you standing here and I was drawn to you. A needle to magnetic north.”

    “I though it was a hunger-thing. You know,” I say, jerking my head to the tiny food shops behind us.

    “My craving shifted.”

    “It was probably just the ice-cream.”

    It’s her turn to shake her head. “And you? Attracted? Animally attracted…?”

    “How much honesty are we obliged to, here?”

    “No lies. We walk away right now and never see each other again, or this leads to us spending a portion of our lives together, travelling the world and having babies in various countries, but no matter what happens, no lies. Agreed?”

    “Agreed.”

    “OK, then. Now; about that attraction...?”

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, Second Bit

2011-12-05T04:28:00.000-05:00

Instead, I revert to form and hold out the ice cream. offering it to her. “Sharing is one of the things my mom taught me to always remember.”

    She’s right there in an instant, right there in front of me, right there with both sets of fingers on mine, guiding the cone to her mouth. I’m drawn to her nails, unpainted, perfectly attended to, pink cuticles. Normally it would a woman’s eyes that compel me to them, but her sunglasses remain perched on the bridge of her nose, hiding them from the angle she’s constructed between us. Then she lets go of me with one hand and raises them up onto her forehead, sliding them out of the way. As the pinkest of pink tongues swipe at the ice cream, she squints at me.

    I believe in semiotics. The idea that small signals can broadcast a wealth of information. Body language and all that.

    She squints at me and takes in her prize, this initial lapping at my cone. Her mouth closes and I watch her swallow. I watch her throat move. Undulate through this most basic of functions.

    Another squint.

    Finally: “What else did your mum teach you?”

    “Always wear clean underwear; because if you’re going to be in an accident... You know, that old chestnut.”

    She’s not batting an eye. Her head’s tilted to the side about two degrees now, showing that she’s listening, that she’s listening and she’s processing, all cylinders are firing... “And...?”

    “Lower the toilet lid when you’re finished. Don’t drink from the milk jug. Carry some emergency bills hidden in your wallet. Always be receptive to Life’s mysteries, keep an open mind. Be nice. Especially to strangers. Because they often come bearing gifts.”

    Without asking, another swipe at my cone. Another strafe of this pink tongue, laden as it is by the creaminess of this shared treat. There’s a rising up at the corners of her mouth. And a shift in her foot position; one’s moved forward, ever so slightly, so that the very tip of her gold sandal is resting on the toe of my Doc Martin boot. “Gifts?”

    “Just themselves, sometimes. Just in being them, crossing your path. Engaging you.”

    “Go on...” This tongue of hers dives into the shrinking mass of ice cream, dips down and around to catch a drip, does a circuit of the cone. Once again with the squinting. Her foot taps. Then grinds. As if putting out a cigarette butt on my instep.

    “That’s what Life’s for. Crossing paths. Learning from those we intersect with. Each intersection therefore a blessing.”

    “A gift.”

    “Exactly.”

    A slight nod, although you’d have missed it if you weren’t paying attention. Me, I’m riveted. I could probably tell you her heart rate right about now; I can feel it through her touch, sense it through her hold on me. It pounds proof of her here, in front of me, with me.

    She carries on. She carries on eating my cone. Saying nothing. It’s a test, obviously. At the end of this test, she might just smile and walk away and we’ll never see each other again. She might be the reigning Cock-Tease Champion, here on Brighton Beach, training for the World Championships. (I have to admit I’d tune into that event were it broadcast on the tele...)

Mesmer in absentia; Paean to Mia Presley, First Bit

2011-12-04T04:25:00.000-05:00

I’m mesmerized.

    And this is saying something, because this woman who’s affecting me is flat-chested.

    I know how this paints me, as some shallow twit, that I would place a woman’s fullness in bust so high on my list of ‘preferences’ as to be shocked that one not well-endowed in any way might still be able to captivate me. But I am a breast man. I knew this from an early age, gazing at my father’s Playboys, looking on in awe at the curvaceous models, the then-naturally pneumatic Playmates with their pronounced cleavages, their swollen mammaries, their ‘walloping udders of bitch goddesses’... Although I appreciate all aspects of women, breasts have always reigned over me.

    Now this one... She has nothing. Nothing to bury yourself between. No pillow-like refuge. She’s flat as a pancake, the mammarian soulmate of Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. She strolls across the beach and there’s nothing there under her bikini top. She may as well be wearing two Band-Aids in its place.

    And for maybe the first time in my entire life, it really doesn’t matter. I simply don’t care.

    I watch her walk in a straight line across the pebbles, gliding, floating, unaffected by the unstable surface underfoot, or at least disinterested, hardly looking left or right as she continues, paying attention to only one thing, other than her eventual destination that is, and that’s me, leaning against this towering flagpole, licking a fast-melting cone.

    I should mention that while the truth about her bust is front-and-centre, that her ‘modest endowments’ are evident, much more is revealed to this seasoned observer.

    First off, there’s her upper body’s muscularity. Not in a bodybuilding sense –though that would not be a negative to me, not in the least– but in a ‘supremely fit’ sense. The gal’s got biceps. And her stomach isn’t just ‘taut and trim’, it’s chiseled. Capping off the stupendous display of artful physical prowess...literally...are her shoulders: their breadth combined with how clearly functional her deltoids are elicits in me an additional visceral reaction. But even in this, a stirring dichotomy; she’s an athlete of some sort, but there’s a decidedly feline overlay about her, a gentleness, a delicate nature that adds something further to my response.

    And then there’s what teases me from below the waist: enwrapped in a floral ‘bottom shawl’, her legs are hidden from me...and yet not. Not entirely, thanks to the sway and gather and swish and exposure of flesh the garment allows. So I catch glimpses. And these glimpses are jolts, million-volt jolts, because the other thing you must understand about me is that while I’m a lover of breasts, I’m equally a worshipper at the Altar of The Leg. Thighs drive me crazy. Hamstrings can send me into delirium. And calves? Well, let’s just say that I’ve been known to walk into lampposts when captivated by stellar calves. Or, as I’m wont to say, cows. And as I’m provided the slimmest of glimpses of her lower legs, I’m finding myself hearing the faintest of faint calls: ‘Moo...’

    She smiles as she cruises closer, and as she does she lowers her glasses just a bit, just enough for me to absorb the impact of clear, hazel eyes while she says in as wispily husky a voice as I could possibly have imagined, “Looks yummy...”

    What’s a guy to do in a case like this? When the initiative’s been taken by someone else, a disarming woman, when it’s obvious that some manner of connection’s been made, when a door’s been opened? But not by you…?

    See, I don’t have a big ego.

    On the other hand, I write about these carnal adventures of mine, so maybe I do. Maybe it’s all about ego. But even if this is true, I’m not a ‘lad’, I don’t do braggadocio well, so I’m innately incapable of responding with any typical sort of cockiness.

Bodacious Penny Tale #3: A Bun in the Oven With Milk on the Side, Sixth Bit

2011-12-03T04:19:00.003-05:00

Pushing me onto my back, Penny straddles me, taking me into her cunt, pushing down hard onto me, taking up residency all around my cock. All the while, she wears this ‘Penny-ish’ smirk.

    “What…?” I ask, charmed.

    Off me she rises…but then applies me to her sphincter, and descends once again. Engulfing my enslickened proof-of-lust, Penny proceeds to ride me with her ass. “You are, beyond the shadow of a doubt, my most favourite Schmeagol in the whole, wide world.”

    “And you are an evil woman,” I offer, cupping her tits, revelling in the sensation of weight and of physics and of process; quickly, my palms are soaked.

    “My own, dear Schmeagol.”

    “Ever thirsty Schmeagol.”

    “Ever horny Schmeagol.”

    “I am forever, resolutely turned on by you.”

    “No matter my body’s state,” she replies, her observation a carefully carved enquiry, too.

    “You know that,” I tell her, kissing her.

    “I do.”

    “I love all the changes.”

    “I know.”

    “I love you at one-hundred-and-eighty pounds.”

    “I know,” she giggles. “Me sitting on your face, feeding you pussy at that weight is memorable.” 
    “You back at your fighting weight is just as much a delight.”

    “I know. I love being carted around the bedroom at one-fifty.”

    “Fucked in mid-air.”

    “Yes please…”

    “You’re gonna have to wait a few months now!”

    “Always with the details…”

    “Have I told you lately how much I love your ass?”

    “Has my ass told you lately how much it loves you?”

    “We get along so well.”

    “Aren’t you glad I hounded you?”

    “Forever grateful,” she says, feeding me a breast even as her rectum clamps and un-clamps my shaft as she descends and ascends again and again.

    “Mmmph…” I sigh. “Come for me…”

- - - - - - -

    I watch her towel my cock, cleaning me up. “May I have ten more minutes with your tits?” I ask.

    “If you insist,” she whines with a roll of her eyes. But then she kisses me. “I’d like that,” she responds, tossing the towel across the room, then sliding down onto her side, positions herself just so, propping up a breast, aiming the nipple perfectly. “Suckle away.”

    This never gets old. It never gets predictable, it never gets boring.

    This is me loving Penny in so fundamental a way as to seem impossible. How can suckling become a foundation of a relationship?

    Well…

    First off, it’s meditative. We both experience something different, yet similar: we get lost in the exchange. It’s like falling asleep…and yet not. It’s much, much sweeter than that.

    Secondly, we both give and receive something. Penny offers up her tits, her milk…and in return, she gets this body-shimmering stimulation. I offer up my mouth and all it can do, and I get her milk. And the satisfaction of experiencing what it all does for her. From the nipple and breast stimulation to the breastfeeding-as-a-sexual-act aspect…to her actually coming.

    Thirdly, we’re together. We’re doing something together that in its own way, isn’t sexual at all. It’s ‘quality time’ writ very, very large.

    Oh, and I guess it’s fair to point out that because there’s the connection to food, to her milk, that there’s an essential element of existence going on. It’s about family. And was, even before Penny first got pregnant.

    Finally, it’s a sort of reaffirmation of us every time I suckle at her tits. It’s its own mnemonic. It’s transportive, it’s transformative, it’s transcendent. Mostly, it’s us. Think of it as a sensual, tactile variation on two people singing together. Or dancing. Elemental being.

    Maybe for us, it’s more a manifestation of Love than sex is.

Bodacious Penny Tale #3: A Bun in the Oven With Milk on the Side, Fifth Bit

2011-12-02T04:18:00.006-05:00

At Six Years On

    “Make me come.”

    Penny is pregnant again. With our fourth child. And is, by all definitions, a ‘junkie’.

    Addicted to our construction.

    She’s become, no doubt about it, The Suckled Queen.

    From the time of her first pregnancy, Penny has been suckled. Six years’ worth of nippular process.

    Six years’ worth of strategic, loving attention from me, six years’ worth of adoration-infused breastfeeding for our children.

    Six years’ worth of conflation for Penny.

    Exquisite, demanding, ecstasy-filled years, years of feeding her babies, feeding me, while feeding an ever-developing libido.

    Penny became an ‘addict’, but she also became a zen master. A prurience-based zen master.

- - - - - - -

    “Chicklets,” I murmur, engulfing a nipple, closing my lips on it, clamping down…and drawing milk.

    “Double-Chicklets,” she corrects with a sigh, a sigh and a shiver and a tug closer. Her whispered words have tremors riding atop them, suffused by an oh-so-familiar process. “Your favourite ones.”

    Gazing up at her, I watch the reaction to my action; bliss is written all over her face. Causing the most delightful crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Softening her expression around the mouth. Inclining her head. “They’re fucking huge now,” I grin, and Penny beams her delight at this oft-repeated declaration.

    “You made them that way,” she says, pinching her unsuckled nipple; milk streams out, dripping onto her ribs.

    “They’re nothing like they used to be.”

    “I’m nothing like I used to be,” she counters.

    “You’re a queen, now.”

    Penny nods. “And before…?”

    “A queen-in-waiting.”

    “I’ve changed.”

    “A lot’s changed.”

    “My tits have changed.”

    “Constantly engorged.”

    “And my nipples….”

    “You’d make September Carrino jealous.”

    More pinching. More leaking. More shivers. “I love her tits.”

    “I know,” I say, clamping on, taking Penny’s breast in hand and squeezing the milk into my mouth.

    Making Penny come.

- - - - - - -

    She’s a master, but only in the sense of being able to control, to channel what unfolds when she’s feeding our youngest. At those times, she ‘banks’ what she creates and then makes a ‘withdrawal’ afterwards. Or, as I’ve seen her do, once she has Shelby put down, she’ll return to ‘the feeding chair’, she’ll masturbate it all away, quietly getting herself off before leaving our daughter to slumber.

    But when I’m attending her?

    Putty.

    Which is why she asked me to make her come. Because she knows I can.

    Over the years her nipples truly have grown to the size of two Chicklets, affixed lengthways to each other. Sizeable and extraordinarily conducive to loving.

    Her areolae, always large, the size of a glass tumbler’s rim, seem to have ovalized just as they’ve darkened.

    And of course, while she was always ‘stacked’, to be constantly lactating means that she’s gone from a ‘G’ cup to a ‘J’.

    “Let’s get some more of that stupendous energy out of you,” I begin suggesting, going to her other breast and gently teasing it orally.

    “Please,” she replies, fingers at her sex.

    She knows she doesn’t need to masturbate. She only needs my mouth on her breast. So she does this as a kindasorta piss-take. As a game. One that we love to play.

    “Mmm…” I moan into her abundance. “Come for me, Penny. Show me how much you love me.”

    “Ugh,” she replies, surrendering, submitting…soughing.

    Eventually, she descends from her little ‘soaring about’. Her trembles cease, her spasm stop, her body calms. Then she takes my face in her hands. “I do have to show you how much I love you,” she says, kissing me. “Because I could never find the words.”

    “Ride me with your ass,” I whisper to her. “Show me that way.”

    And she does.

Bodacious Penny Tale #3: A Bun in the Oven With Milk on the Side, Fourth Bit

2011-12-01T04:17:00.004-05:00

At Eight Months

    “You sure do love to feed.”

    “I sure do love your milk.”

    “You sure do a great job of draining me.”

    “You sure do a great job of providing an abundance for this hungry soul.”

    Penny kisses the top of my head. “So it’s true; we make a great team.”

    “I wouldn’t have consented to marry you, otherwise.”

    “You’re such a bastard.”

    “And you’re such an indescribably striking expectant mother.”

    “And now I’m going to cry.”

    “And now I’m going to suckle.”

    “We each should be doing what we do best.”

    Penny is...enormous. I don’t mean that she’s become a whale...I mean that our baby is a grand statement. She has a prodigious belly.

    And along with this truth, so are her tits. Prodigious.

    In truth, everything else about Penny is also a little ‘more there’. But it’s not like she’s approaching two hundred pounds-

    Oh.

    Yeah, she is.

    Her ‘game weight’...since I came into her life...is about 152. Fit and firm, more solid than before. And she’s put on about thirty pounds during her pregnancy.

    Ten of which I’d swear is due to lactation.

    The production of which I’m constantly consuming.

    She’s gone up two bra sizes.

    And is definitely, beyond-the-shadow-of-a-doubt, The Queen of Milk.

    And The Queen of Emotions, too.

    The two combine right now to have me draining her mammaries while tears slide down her cheeks.

    I’m a greedy imbiber. I don’t ‘nurse’ a drink, no matter if we’re talking Diet Coke, coffee or water. I drink because I’m thirsty, because I want to slake my needs.

    Where Penny’s concerned, it’s turned out that my ‘needs’, my ‘thirst’ is insatiable.

    I suckle, I draw the thin, sweet milk from her nipple...I gulp down the seemingly endless stream from her monumental well-springs...and I always want more.

    Penny’s tried to explain what it’s like for her. But she always ends up shaking her head. Out of frustration.

    I know that it thrills her. I’ve learned how to provide my attention in just the right way, I’ve learned how she likes it best. And me clamped on her tits provides her boundless satisfaction by itself. Never mind me masturbating her.

    Which she can get very gleeful about, that I ‘do it better than she does’.

    I suckle, I draw milk from her, I finger her, I get her off, she comes...

    Heaven.

- - - - - - -

At A Month After Our First Daughter’s Birth

    Penny leads me by the hand, practically sashaying down the hallway towards the bedroom.

    “She asleep?” I ask, joyous in watching her hips sway, in the gentle energy her body issues with so much quiet aplomb.

    Penny says nothing, merely spins, walking backwards now, biting her bottom lip. Finally, as we enter the room, she nods. “Out like a light,” she says, slowing to mantle her arm at my waist. “It’s time.”

    “Yeah?” I ask, noting how her complexion is suffused with something akin to the afterglow a powerful session of coitus provides.

    Onto the bed she pulls us, arranging us just so. Unbuttoning her blouse, she rolls the panels off her shoulders. She begins to go for her bra clasp, but I interrupt, finessing it in a couple of quick movements, and she allows the garment to fall away.

    I look to her face; it’s all expectancy and enthusiasm now, her eyes practically shining. “For this to work properly,” she whispers, taking my hand and guiding it down the front of her shorts, under her panties and into her fur, “I’m gonna need a little separation.”

    “Demarcation,” I suggest, thrilled by the moistness, the heat between her legs. “Delineation.”

    “Differentiation,” she counter-posits, pulling my head to her breast, then cramming the business end into my mouth.

    I suckle and masturbate her concurrently. Lips draw milk, fingers draw grease.

    “Oh...Sweet Jesus.”

    ‘Mmphh...?”

    “Oh, Husband. How sublime,” she coos, her hips driving in gyrations and similar motions.

    Her milk descends and her sex demands and Penny is lost, sundered entirely...gone.

- - - - - - -

    “I thought I was going to start crying when I was feeding our daughter.”

    Penny and I lay facing each other. My hand is on her hip. One of hers braces my face, the other is at my cock, freed from its confines, being stroked by her. “How come?”

    “Anticipation.”

    “Oh?”

    “We were having a really lovely session, I was lost in watching her, and then I thought of you, about how I wanted you at my breast...and everything just began- Well, vibrating at this incredibly peaceful frequency. My need was almost overwhelming.”

    Penny’s hand works me diligently, but without much fanfare.

    “And so you came to me for relief.”

    “I wanted your mouth on me, your fingers on me... I wanted to be with you.”

    “I’ve missed you, too.”

    “It’s not like we’ve been strangers.” 

    “No. But all this has been held in abeyance.”

    “I love feeding her.”

    “Anna.”

    “Yes. But it’s- I mean, breastfeeding...”

    I wait. Patiently.

    “I’ll always want to breastfeed our children. But I’ll never want to give up feeding you.”

    “You’re still convinced you can have both.”

    “After today,” she grins, “I know I can have both. In fact, I have to have both.”

Bodacious Penny Tale #3: A Bun in the Oven With Milk on the Side, Third Bit

2011-11-30T04:15:00.003-05:00

I’ve written previously about the idea of a sexual Pavlovian process. That is, attaching one stimulation to another. For example, attaching tickling to the physiological responses associated with sexual satisfaction. Or, more apropos of this piece, suckling with climaxing.

    Penny and I knew we were playing with fire. Neither one of us is a dumb-bunny, so the complications that breastfeeding-cum-coming could manifest weren’t lost on us; if we ‘trained’ her to be so receptive to me suckling her, what would she experience once our child had arrived? Would ever feeding session provide her with sexual gratification? And if so, how would she moderate this response if in public? Better yet, how would she process this conflation of experiences, period? How much of a mind-fuck would it be to be breastfeeding her newborn...and have it result in sexual gratification?

    “I’ll deal with it.”

    And so we proceeded.

    ‘Breast sessions’ were always separate from regular lovemaking. That’s not meant to imply that when we had sex, there wasn’t breastplay. But the focus was entirely different...even though we may never have spoken about it.

    I think what motivated Penny was an absolute fascination with the degree to which I could revel in her tits.

    At first she may have been charmed, but because I applied the same kind of ‘attention’ to other parts of her...her ass, her cunt, her face, her body in general...I’m presuming that at the heart of it all, abject curiosity as to ‘How far can he take this...?’ held sway.

    In fact, maybe that sums it up perfectly. That she was enthralled by the possibilities of just how much of a connection I could form with her tits.

    Lord knows I’d already managed to win her over via her ass, her pussy. In fact, it became an ongoing lament that she was being spoiled, that she wasn’t reciprocating to any fair degree, that she knew that she couldn’t possibly gesture her way out of this ‘sex debt’...

    ...and yet never really endeavoured to even the score. (You need to know I’m laughing, here.)

    The truth is that Penny became this obsession with me.

    I’d spend hours going down on her. Eating her out. Fucking her ass became these habitual marathon sessions. Yes, we had ‘quickies’, but I’d often find myself dragged into the bedroom and quickly have my head jammed between her thighs, her hands holding me in place even after I’d settled in.

    (That I would insist on retrieving what I’d climaxed into her cunt, her rectum, lapping at the creampie, only conflated things all the more. When we were out, and she got all contemplative, then flushed -she is a natural redhead, remember- I always knew where she’d gone, what she was thinking about.)

    So the journey of her tits, her nipples, drawing out milk, hyper-fueling her stimulation, making her breasts an orgasmic focal point, this was a huge deal for Penny.

    At first, she said nothing. Just lay there...and stared. Watched as I went to town on her nipples, digitally manipulated her clit, her vaginal canal. Silently marvelling at what I painstakingly constructed, this magnificent production where me suckling at her while diddling her resulted in the most boisterous of climaxes.

    “Fuck!” she exclaimed the first time.

    “Tell me about it,” I laughed, watching her body tremble itself back to calmness.

    “You’re- You’re amazing.”

    “Because I love you?” I asked, licking tenderly at her nipple, swirling a tongue, laying off it...and yet not.

    “Because of what you do to me.”

    “I just bring out your luminescence.”

    “You make me come.”

    “I just line things up, is all.”

    “No, you make me come.”

    “Pshaw,” I respond, latching on, closing my eyes at the sensation of her hardness on my tongue. 074

    Silence. Then: “Do it it again.”

    “Mmpph...?”

    “Make me come.”

    “What’s in it for me?” I ask, fingers venturing around her sex once more, mouth more affixed.

    “My undying attachment to you in all ways.”

    I gaze up at her.

    “Please...?”

    “Of course,” I reply with a wink.

Bodacious Penny Tale #3: A Bun in the Oven With Milk on the Side, Second Bit

2011-11-29T04:14:00.007-05:00

The bed ends up soaked.

    Not because I can’t handle her milk, but because we both get so damned hot at the sight of it spraying everywhere.

    And so as Penny rides me, she sprays everywhere.

    I fuck her from behind, and she sprays everywhere.

    She mounts my face and we sixty-nine, and she sprays everywhere.

    Spooning? Milk sprayed everywhere.

    Missionary? Milk sprayed everywhere.

    Cowgirl? Milk...sprayed...everywhere.

    “Nice mess,” she finally growls, squirting up at me. I’m taking her ass as she diddles herself with one hand, guides a spray of milk with another.

    “I’ll make you a promise,” I tell her, licking away what milk has landed on my lips. “Next time, I won’t stop suckling you. There won’t be a drop wasted.”

    Penny just grins.

    “Here’s a notion for you,” I tell her, going close, hovering over her. “A cocktail: my jism...and your breastmilk.”

    Her face lights up. “That is hot!”

    Sucking on her proffered nipple, I draw a long inhalation of milk into my mouth, then share it with her. Snowballing breastmilk.

    I swear, this gets her climaxing.

    “Marry me,” I tell her, grinning at her beatific state, “and you can indulge thusly to your heart’s content.”

    “You really want to put a ring on my finger, don’t you?”

    “I want you as my wife, yes.”

    “OK,” she says, eyes closed, head back, throat exposed, diddling harder.

    “OK what?” I ask, feeling her body spasm in extremis now.

    “OK,” she says, sounding as if she’s choking. “I’ll marry you...”

- - - - - - -

At Five Months

    It has become our favourite way of fucking: Penny gently riding me, gently feeding me an increasingly-engorged-breast, with me gently suckling.

    Right breast...left breast...right breast...left breast...both breasts...

    “Ah, husband,” she coos, grinding away on me. Gently.

    “Mmpphh...” I reply, winking as I swallow.

    Penny’s body is changing. Yes, she has massive tits. And a now-imposing belly. But it’s more than just these. There’s the glow. The radiance. There’s something about how she moves; that’s changed, too. And in this, how her body presents itself has also changed. Something in her intent. Even when she’s standing still, but especially when she’s in motion. There’s a quiet, deliberate way about her. In all of her fecundity.

    “You’re in that place again,” she says, kissing my milk-laden lips, sucking on my milk-laden tongue.

    “I was. I can’t help it. I notice things about you.”

    Penny shakes her head. “You appreciate things about me.”

    “After I notice them, yes.”

    “And that’s where you were. Appreciating what you’d noticed.”

    “I’ll never apologize for doing that.”

    Penny kisses me. Resolutely. Without reservation. And in so sustained a way as to suggest permanence. “I’ll never want you to.”

    “Your body’s changing.”

    She nods. “And the best part...?” she asks, hunkering down, forearms crossed...but still moving on me ‘back there’.

    “There’s more of you to love?”

    She’s begun opening her mouth to respond, but it’s pointless, and instead, she stares at me wistfully. While moving ‘back there’. “As I change, your appreciation of me expands to accommodate.”

    “Endlessly.”

    “I notice how I’m changing.”

    “No doubt.”

    “But not in the same way you do. You notice it all...and you’re even more the kid in the candy store.”

    “I love you. I love your sumptuousness.”

    “You love every aspect of abundance.”

    “Every gestational ounce.”

    Penny smiles. “I love being pregnant around you.”

    “You’re very good at it. Being pregnant.”

    “I feel beautiful.”

    “Pregnancy tends to do that.”

    “No... I mean I feel beautiful being pregnant around you.”

    “Well, aside from the special treat we get at the end of all this, I get to make love with this ever-more-gorgeouser wife of mine.”

    “Can I tell you something?”

    “Of course.”

    “Even if I felt like shit, your enthusiasm would lift me up.” She snuggles as if to whisper. “I’ve never been so horny.”

    “Hmm...”

    “Or more ‘receptive’ to the advantages and perks of sex.”

    “I’ve noticed. You’re a hellova lot of fun to dance with these days.”

    “Coming reminds me of conceiving.”

    “Ah... So there’s that added motivation.”

    “I see them as reaffirmations.”

    “Sealing the deal.”

    “Sealing my womb!” Penny’s laughter is raucous.

    “You’re going to me a marvellous mom.”

    And here, Penny cries.

    Tiny tears at first. Weeping, really...then soughing, then sobbing...and then she’s wracked, her whole body caught up in herky-jerky movements, lost to the process.

    Well, processes.

    Crying...and coming.

    I’m hoping you can imagine what it’s like. These two manifestations. Commingled into something grand and glorious, each different, yet both very much alike.

    Me? I lay here and appreciate it all, gazing on in wonder at the utter submission Penny’s accomplished, submission to precisely where she is, right here, right now.

    Applying her face to mine, greasing my cheek with tears, Penny nuzzles, sniffing and sobbing as she goes. “I feel liberated.”

    “You love a good cry,” I joke, swooning at the sensation of her leaking nipples raking my chest.

    “It’s more than that, Silly.”

    Migrating my hands to her hips, I take possession of the widest part of her body.

    “You- You opened a door. And I walked through. And I’m on the other side of what I was trapped in.”

    “And so you feel ‘liberated’.”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, I may have held the door open, but you walked through it.”

    “You’re my liberator.”

    “I’m your doorman.”

    “I hate it when you don’t indulge me.”

    “Probably because it’s such a rare event.”

    Penny beams. “You’re right. You’re always spoiling me.”

    “You deserve to be spoiled...and the world deserves to be exposed to the resulting smiles you offer up.”

    “I do smile a lot these days.”

    “You do. You’re beginning to give the impression of someone a little addle-brained.”

    “Watch it!”

    “Mind you, with a body like yours, and libido to match... I think I can make do with a little goofiness.”

    “So self-sacrificing,” she teases. “A sexual virago...with constantly leaking tits...and you manage to rise to the occasion and ‘make do’.”

    “That’s why you married me.”

    Penny stares. “I married you.”

    “You did.”

    “And you, me.”

    “Indeed.”

    “Because I was carrying your child.”

    “Because I love you.”

    “And you wanted me as your wife.”

    “Yes.”

    “Your Life partner.”

    “Yes.”

    “You think I’m a good catch.”

    “I think you’re the grandest catch imaginable. Thank goodness for Google.”

    Penny kisses me. Lightly. Barely brushing my lips with hers, hardly making contact with them with a darting tongue. “He was startled by my body, but fell in love with my mind, my spirit.”

    “Something like that.”

    “Tell me you love me.”

    “Penny Duffy...‘Miss K’, ‘Miss Bodacious P’...I love you.”

    “Penny Carruthers.”

    “Her, too.”

Bodacious Penny Tale #3: A Bun in the Oven With Milk on the Side, First Bit

2011-11-28T04:12:00.007-05:00

At Three Months

    The prospect was dizzying: a normally curvaceous gal with naturally big boobs...pregnant.

    Lactating.

    34Fs engorged with milk.

    A woman who adored being suckled, who could attain climax from nipple stimulation alone, preggars.

    I had to be careful where I pondered all this. Were I on a sidewalk, in my daze I could find myself walking right into someone or worse, into traffic. Were I driving, part of that very same traffic, I could easily cause a real accident.

    I told Penny this once in iChat.

    She roared with laughter.

    Then calmed herself, shook her lowered head...then roared again.

    Meanwhile, I got up and got myself a coffee.

    “Hey!” she called out amidst the laughter.

    “I’ll be right back!” I replied from the kitchen counter, taking my time.

    “Fine,” I heard her say.

    I actually did take my time. Pouring the coffee from the carafe, going to the fridge, retrieving the cream, watching it lighten the java, putting the carton back, adding the sugar, stirring it all up...

    When I returned to the table, it was a good thing I hadn’t been sipping from my mug.

    There was Penny, top off, bra off, squeezing a nipple between thumb and forefinger...

    ...drawing milk out of her breast.

    And then bringing this leakage to her mouth...wiping it on a flattened tongue...and narrowing her eyes at me as she swallowed.

    “Oh.”

    “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “It arrived this morning.”

    “Your milk.”

    “Yup.”

    “Damn.”

    “Wish you were here,” she said, going back to the nipple. “I could use your help.”

    “Oh?” I asked, sitting back down.

    Penny nodded while closing her eyes.

    “Suckling,” I gulp.

    More nodding.

    “Real suckling.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    I stared as the milk dribbles out of her, as she massages her tit, as her eyes reopen and she gazes at me.

    “Still no morning sickness?”

    “Nope,” she replies, licking her fingers again before switching to the other breast. “But I’m wickedly horny.”

    “Right.”

    “So tell me, Honey,” she coos, tugging especially hard on and especially leaky nipple. “Can you help me...?”

- - - - - - -

At Four Months

    “I was sure you’d forgive me.”

    Kneeling on the couch facing a perfectly reclining Penny, one of my hands is occupied cupping one of her breasts while the other is busy at her pussy. One set of fingers supports the substantial weight of her engorged bust while the other plies her sex.

    Oh, and my mouth? Suckling.

    A sharp intake of breath, a stiffening of Penny’s entire body, and then her hips are in motion, her cunt doing all it can to manipulate my digits towards its own end, vising down in concentrated contractions according to its own agenda.

    “God, it feels like you’re punishing me!”

    And the milk flows.

    And I suckle.

    “Promise me you’re going to fuck me.”

    “Penny,” I declare, very plain-toned and businesslike, “I promise you that I will fuck you.”

    “Hard,” she maintains. “I need it hard.”

    “Even though you’re expecting.”

    She shrugs. “I’m expecting a baby...our baby...and I’m expecting you to fuck me.”

    “It’s all good,” I reassure her, going back to draining her, drawing the running liquid into my mouth in great efforts...then swallowing with great ceremony.

    “Sweet Jesus...”

    “Now,” I say, maneouvering my fingers just so inside her while strafing her nipple with a poking tip-of-tongue, “as I know you’d never take the Lord’s name in vain...that must mean that your exhortation was a sortakinda calling out to him.”

    “I was declaring my joy.”

    “Gotcha.”

    “Bastard.”

    “Bastard that you love,” I add, diddling and suckling.

    Silence.

    “Bastard father of your child.”

    More silence.

    “Bastard future husband.”

    “Do we have to talk about this right now...?”

    “Nope,” I reply, easing in and out of her. Repeatedly.

    “Thank you.”

    “For what?” I laugh. “Finger-fucking and suckling you?”

    Penny’s one hand is at the back of my head, pulling me onto her, while her other is splayed at her clit. “For not pushing me on something I probably need to be pushed on.”

Angie's Tales: Standing Her Up, Part Three

2011-11-27T03:48:00.003-05:00

“Hmm...” she finally allows, the corners of her eyes crinkling into an adorable variation on a ‘smile’ all their own.

    “Yeah...?” I ask, delighting in the sustained sensations my cock is engulfed by, echoes of echoes of pleasure.

    “Yeah.” Her purchase on my gonads shifts; my sac is pulled, carefully tugged at, lovingly acknowledged, even as her grin steps up to the mic, front-and-center.

    “Good.”

    “Indulge me some more?” she asks after a long bout of silence, contrasted only by her handiwork and her cunt making its feelings for its guest quite clear, thankyouverymuch.

    “Of course.”

    Pressing her forehead into mine, she sighs. “I want you in my ass.”

    “OK.”

    “Here,” she adds, kissing me, bussing my lips in an almost perfunctory way. “Standing here.”

    “Of course.”

    “Can we do exactly what- I mean, this? Can we do what we’ve been doing, only-”

    “There’s almost nothing we can’t do,” I whisper to her. And as I do, I’m bending my knees, I’m sliding out of her, I’m feeling my heart swell at her gasping when I’ve exited, when I’m gone, I’m spinning her about, making her pirouette, positioning her right in front of me. “Guide me in,” I instruct her, kissing her neck as I do.

    “Oh, I think I’m crushin’ on you something fierce, Mr. Writer-man...” she tells me, reaching behind her, taking my shaft in hand, applying my enslickened glans to her sphincter...

    ...and bearing down ever so slowly, molasses-slowly, glacier-slowly, societal change-slowly...

    ...she does some rear-passage engulfing, and in due course, I’ve disappeared, vanished.

    “Oh...Lord...” is all she can manage, clearly discombobulated.

    “I think it’s only appropriate,” I say soft and low to her, moving a hand down to her sex, “that you offer up a frontal entreaty to the Gods of Prurience.”

    There is no response from her. There can’t be. Mostly because she’s lost to the circumstances. Mostly because in a way, I’m no longer here with her; I may have vanished, but it’s her who’s ‘gone’, lost in the abbondanza of sensations, of her ass riding my shaft, of her fingers having their way as they might were she simply in bed, indulging her needs, of everything combining, conflating, commingling into a nice double-orifice mess.

    Because I don’t fuck her. Not here, not now. I’m merely an instrument of her intent, a means for her to get to the culmination of her journey. So there is no jamming of her, you don’t se me thrusting up into her bowels, I don’t plough her rectum, there’s none of that on display.

    It’s all her, one hand between her legs, the other hand gripping my thigh, her hips gyrating, pelvis tilting, a woman rutting in place, using her partner for her pleasure.

    Even as the goosebumps rise.

    “I shouldn’t be able to remain upright after all that.”

    Listening to her locomotive breathing, watching plumes escape her nostrils and dissipate quickly after migrating past the doorway, licking the sweat off her upper arms here, there and everywhere, I take in this declaration, charmed by the fragmented timber in her voice. “I’ve got you around the waist.”

    “I know...but damn,” she laughs, shaking her head. “I should be on the ground.”

    “You’re safe,” I murmur into her cheek. “No falling for you.”

    Twisting her head, she achieves a better look at me. “Methinks the gal has already fallen.”

    “You know... I’m hesitant to spoil the moment,” I tell her.

    “By...?”

    “By asking you if you might indulge me.”

    “By...?”

    “By allowing me to unload in you.”

    As strange as it might seem at this point, she actually crimsons. The blush rises as she frames my request, her complexion shifting markedly in seconds. “You want to fuck my ass...”

    “...and come.”

    Turning her head back to the darkness, the chill-filled night, she bends slightly, reaches between her legs, grabs my balls...and squeezes. “Just don’t be too gentle, eh...?”

Angie's Tales: Standing Her Up, Part Two

2011-11-26T03:47:00.002-05:00

When we’d arrived here at the back door, I’d positioned her just so in the doorway, so that she was on the riser, elevated about an inch, an inch and a half higher than normal. Giving her just that extra altitude to participate that extra amount.

    “You’re a bully,” she declares, falling against me, re-adjusting again...while squeezing my scrotum.

    “Sue me.”

    She is, all things considered, taller than me right now. And I can see how this plays out in her expression: moxie

    “Normally, you don’t like looming over your partners.”

    She shakes her head.

    “But there’s something about this...”

    Peering down once more, this time at the general state of affairs, our practicals, a gentle nodding is released by this shimmering Amazon.

    I place one hand on her hip, feeling the quiet power there, the miniscule movements as she continues to masturbate...only this time she’s got a ‘dildo’ inside her, and that dildo is my cock. My other hand? It takes her free one, interlacing our fingers before bringing it to my mouth...and kissing it as thoroughly as I’m able.

    “You’re using me for your pleasure.”

    “No news there,” she counters. “We’ve already discussed this. Me using my partners so selfishly. Try to keep up, eh?”

    “Yeah... But this is different. Isn’t it...?”

    A jocular roll of the eyes ensues. “What isn’t different with you?”

    “You like my cock inside you.”

    Several deep breaths ensue. “I love your cock inside me.”

    “Say that again for me?” 
    “I love your cock inside me.”

    “Nice. I like the sound of that,” I say, flexing my shaft once more.

    “Don’t move,” she says, biting her bottom lip, eyes fixed on mine. “Just let me do this for a while. Please...”

    And so here we stand. In the autumnal dark, only the distant light from the hallway providing any illumination from one side of this exercise, and a harvest moon’s glow from the other. Up and down she goes, up on her tippytoes, down onto flat feet and then lower, bending her knees, bottoming-out on me-

    But this isn’t an accurate retelling.

    Because it sounds as if she’s riding me...only vertically.

    But really...she’s not.

    That’s not what this is.

    She isn’t standing here, rising and falling on my cock, impaling herself... There’s no abundance of movement, this isn’t some display of Tab A into Slot B. This is-

    This is gentle.

    This is her on her back, in bed, hands between her legs, fingers plucking and plying, hardly moving at all while generating all kinds of reaction from her actions...

    ...only she’s not on her back, she’s not laying down...

    ...and she’s not alone.

    She masturbates herself towards release by way of my cock.

    Yes, she rises and falls.

    Yes, she uses my hardness to pike herself repeatedly.

    But I’m not so sure if you were watching, you’d see much movement at all.

    In fact, I think you’d be more mesmerized by the lack of movement.

    By the concentration of effort, by her focus, by her mute determination.

    Which means that when she reaches her destination, when she’s finally ‘there’, the resultant cacophony is like a thunderclap out of silence, booming through the previous quietude.

    Her fingers grip mine, digits seemingly pulsing in time with her vaginal spasms. Her other fingers clutch my balls...taking my breath away.

    So in the end, both our mouths shape enormous ‘O’s.

Angie's Tales: Standing Her Up, Part One

2011-11-25T03:45:00.005-05:00

“This is different,” she says, peering down.

    We stand at her back door. It’s wide open, both doors open, the screen door prevented from closing by way of the sliding shim on the compressor shaft. Outside, the night’s cool air. Inside, though the fire hasn’t been stoked for hours, warmth. Of course, there’s a ton of ambient heat coming off us...even though we’re standing stock-still.

    “And you have goosebumps,” I counter, bending to kiss some of them at her shoulder. I want to linger here, want to run my tongue all about, inhale her scent, feel her response, usually meted out in either trembles or shivers.

    She brings her attention to my face, even as she continues to cup my balls, to direct my glans all over her clit. “I feel caught in the middle,” she says with a girlish shrug. For a woman of her stature...nudging six-feet...a ‘girlish shrug’ is a powerful gesture. At least to me.

    “How so...?” My question is delivered as I flex my cock.

    A grin erupts. “I’m hot...but I’m also chilled. Hence the goosebumps. But back to this...” Methodical in her motions, she’s clearly pleased to have what she has at her disposal.

    “You’ve never done this before? Used a partner to please yourself?”

    She lets loose an enormous release of laughter, her whole body quaking as a result. This thrills. “I’ve used all my partners to please me!”

    I kiss her.

    It shuts her up...and yet brings on some pronounced whimpering...and renewed activity down south.

    “You can’t keep doing that,” she soughs, eyelids fluttering. Licking her lips, she refocuses on her assisted-masturbation.

    “Doing what...?”

    “Making me swoon. Kissing me, making me swoon.”

    “Why not?” 
    “Because it... Because it throws me off my game,” she finally manages, my cockhead working overtime, sliding over her vulva, slipping into various nooks and crannies, abrading certain sprigs of distended flesh, generally making a proper nuisance of my dick.

    “And that’s a bad thing.”

    She gazes into my eyes. “You’re a ‘bad thing’,” is her suggestion. “You’re a bad, bad man.”

    “Whom you want inside you.”

    My peehole meets the hardness of her clit. And is summarily pressed into it, over it...mashing flesh-on-flesh. And my balls are rolled between her fingers, producing a dull ache; exquisite pain. “Not quite yet.”

    “No?”

    “No. I want more of this,” she replies. “It feels too good to put aside. At least for now.”

    “As you wish,” I laugh. “It feels too good to put aside, to put inside.”

    “I thought you said this interlude was about me.”

    “It is. Carry on.”

    And she does.

    “You love to masturbate,” I say eventually, witnessing the look on her face as well as how busy she is several feet below it; she’s nicely on her way now, the pathway clear.

    “Love it, love it...love it.”

    “And you love to love your partner’s balls.”

    “I’ve always had this ‘thing’ about testicles,” she confesses with another shrug. “I love cocks, period. I love men, period. From head to toe. But their balls will always have a special place in my heart.”

    “So I have to ask: Have you ever had one inside your vagina?”

    The question jolts her. I observe its effects, watch how she processes it, examines it, puts it in context. “That’s not possible.”

    “Of course it is,” I smile, and in one very small movement, with hardly an adjustment, I’m inside her.

    “Hey!” she complains...but not so much that she’s prevented herself from accentuating this development; she’s going up and down on her toes, executing calf-raises.

Of Carrie, II: Ocracoke’s Froth and Foam, Chapter Nine

2011-11-24T04:56:00.000-05:00

“You so clearly love and get along with your parents. That delighted me.”

    “OK, enough about them. What else makes you swoon?”

    “The way you move.”

    “What, you like my ass?”

    “I take pleasure in the way you move. Not what you’re moving. Or how you move it.”

    “There’s no difference between how I move and the way I move. I’m not that tipsy.”

    “You glide.”

    “That’s how you see me?!?”

    “From the start. I’m crushin’ on your gait.”

    “Aw...”

    “I delight in the way you pause to consider a point. That thoughtful look you get. Depending on the subject, it can appear serious, frivolous, ludicrous-”

    “Hey! Be nice!”

    “I could go on, but-”

    “Please do!”

    “-but most of all, I love it when that tongue of your comes out when nobody else is looking. And it comes out for me.”

    “I’m going to make a point of not doing that under any other circumstances. To anyone else.”

    “And in return, I promise that other than during the necessary requirements of conversation, I won’t engage anyone else’s tongue.”

    “Including my mom, I hope.”

    “Including your mom.”

    Carrie shakes her head. “I sure must like you, talking about my mom while I fuck you...”

    There is a moment in the middle of the night when the rain has stopped. The storm’s done, the rain’s stopped, and the wind has died down.

    “Carrie,” I say, easing her out of bed.

    “Wha...?”

    “Come to the window,” I tell her, walking her the entire distance, propping her up...while stroking my cock.

    “What is it?” she asks as I arrange her there, forearms on the sill. “Oh... That breeze is a delight!” she murmurs. “It’s salty...yet sweet!”

    I’m in her before she can utter another word.

    In her, reminding her of us by way of pushing home, reminding her of the hours she’d spent screaming earlier before unconsciousness took her.

    Bracing her at the hips, I make love to her in this dopey state, hardly generating any momentum at all. For all intents and purposes, we’re just standing there.

    “Thank you for coming with me to Ocracoke,” she says. “I’m glad we’re sharing it.”

    “Thanks for collecting sea-glass. I’m glad I’m a letch.”

    The neighbourhood, whoever might be listening, hears a witch’s cackle about now.

    Just before the screaming starts up again.

    It’s a dash.

    It’s a still-dark-out dash down the road two miles to the nearest access point.

    We park, we sprint bare-footed, towels in hand, up the wooden stairs, down the dune, onto the sloping sand to the shore.

    The sky easing from coal to azure, we throw down our towels, shuck our clothes and head into the surf, the frothy and foamy surf.

    There are no preliminaries. Once we’re out up to the tops of my thighs, Carrie leaps up into my arms, wraps her legs around me, reaches down and guides me up into her, and before we’ve got full-penetration, we’re fucking in the Atlantic.

    “I’ve never been as horny as this in my life!” she yells, arching her back away from me. Through the whispy clouds the moon makes its presence felt; the light reflects off her skin, lubricated as it is by the sea water.

    “And I can’t imagine you looking more beautiful.”

    We don’t move. It’s just us kissing, Carrie jounces a bit in place, but mostly it’s us and our pretty statue-like sexual congress.

    It’s a shame Carrie’s jubilation gets absorbed by the tide, the sand, the wind and the sky.

    Not that the moment will ever be lost from our mutual memories.



    She cries.

    In our room some time later, Carrie cries.

    “Don’t mind me,” she sniffs, wiping her nose on my chest, doing it just to see if she can get away with it...and when it’s clear she can, she sobs some more, uses her hand to smear away the mess, then goes to the clean side of my chest and settles in. “I get like this once in a while.”

    “Not a problem. I regularly rant unceasingly in Phoenician until the spittle finally collects in front of my bottom lip, making me entirely unintelligible. Amongst other personal flaws.” Here, I raise a leg...and fart.

    And the laughter begins again.

    “You’re so superficial,” I sigh. “Tears one minute, the giggles the next...”

    “I’m a woman. Cut me some slack.”

    “OK. So why are you crying?”

    She says nothing for the longest time. “Because I feel jumbled.”

    “Right. No more anal orgasms for you.”

    “Now you’re making fun of me.”

    “Of course I’m making fun of you! Our worlds have collided! We’re in the process of seeing what’s going to result! What would you expect from me, reverence? That would be a little cloying, wouldn’t it?”

    Raising her head so she’s looking at me, Carrie smiles. “Even when you’re mean to me, I feel loved. Go figure.”

    “You know what your mother said to me on the way out the door last night?”

    “No. You know what she texted me this morning?”

    “Make sure she treats you right.”

    “No; she said ‘Make sure you treat him right’.”

    I wait for her to play catch-up. “Are you serious?!? she said that to you?”

    “Listen to the old gal. She’s smarter than your father.”

    Open-mouthed, Carrie just...stares.

    “So; what do you feel like doing today...?”

Of Carrie, II: Ocracoke’s Froth and Foam, Chapter Eight

2011-11-23T04:55:00.002-05:00

Though there had been interludes throughout the evening where the rain had stopped, by the time we get back to the inn, the storm had been rebooted.

    So if we’d wanted to stay as dry as possible, we’d had to have run from the truck to the door.

    But then, Carrie parked as far from the entrance as is possible. In fact, with the entirety of the parking lot vacant, she parked on the street.

    “You’re a fool,” I laugh, smacking her ass as we skidaddle our way.

    “And you’re a flirt!” she says, running backwards. “Catch me,” she says, ducking down, shimmying away from me. “Catch me and you get a prize.”

    “Already had my prize for the evening,” I reply, blowing her off. “When your mother stuck her tongue in my mouth.”

    “You’re a brute!” she cackles, and then squirms like a child when I capture her, then cart her away, thrown over my shoulder, just like a giant would.

    After squealing all the way inside, up the stairs and onto the landing, she finally turns. Plastering herself against the wall, she eyes me. “Did my mother really stick her tongue down your throat...?”

    “Ah...” I muse, approaching her. “Are we wanting to venture into kinky waters?”

    “Did she?”

    “No. But Vera’s been sending me naughty text messages.”

    She frowns. “She has not!”

    “I don’t have a cell phone, Blondie.”

    “OK, then,” she says, hands on my chest. Eyeing me all over, pulling apart the moment like taffy, Carrie is just a little bit tipsy. “You are something, though.”

    “Thanks. I think.”

    “You were masterful. At my parents’.”

    “Just part and parcel of being an Ancient.”

    She thinks on this. “How do you feel about outfits?”

    “I’m not dressing up in a toga. I’m not that kind of ‘ancient’.”

    “I was thinking about something for me. Are you into that?”

    “I’m into anything that revolves around you.”

    Out comes her tongue...up goes the cadence of my heart...and out comes her grin. “A witch’s outfit. Hat...cape...dress...tights...boots...”

    “Garters for the leggings, split-crotch panties, a bustier...”

    Carrie stares.

    “What...?”

    “Somehow you find ways to melt my heart and crank it all up to ’11’.”

    “Let’s go to bed. I want to feel your skin all over me.”

    She tugs me in so that our noses are touching. “I want to ride you again,” she whispers. “I want to be close to you, while you’re inside me.”

    “I think we can manage that. Even with the taste of your mom’s tongue fresh in my mouth...”

    “Even if you break my heart,” she says, gazing down on me. “It’ll have been worth it.”

    “Are you trying to make me swoon?”

    “Men don’t swoon.”

    “I’m not most men. I was swooning on the jetty.”

    She doesn’t get it at first. (I blame the wine.) “Oh!” she says, understanding bumping up against her. “You were not!”

    “I was so. I’d watched you approach,” I say, running my hands over her shoulders, down her upper arms, along her forearms to her wrists...the inside of which I palpate, then shine where pulses are traditionally taken. “I looked away periodically not because I didn’t want to get caught, but because I was going to swoon so badly I’d lose consciousness.”

    “That’s such a load!” she laughs.

    “Why do react that way?” I ask. “Every time I go there, you respond that way. Disbelief.” 
    “Because of those aforementioned ‘rough waters’.”

    “I’m not telling you I’ll love you forever,” I whisper. “I’m telling you how you’ve made me feel. Already.”

    “So,” she says, contrite. “How would you quantify your swoonedness...?”

    “Are you fishing?!?”

    “Yup.” She pinches my chin. “And considering I just tasted my mom on your tongue, you owe me.”

    “You delight me.”

    “I do?” she asks, undulating side-to-side. With a little up-and-down thrown in for good measure.

    “You do. You delighted me at your parents’.”

    “I did...?”

    “Yup. You were so cute to watch with them. Especially when you sat between them on the couch.”

    “I was already drunk.”

Of Carrie, II: Ocracoke’s Froth and Foam, Chapter Seven

2011-11-22T03:54:00.002-05:00

“Nothing can be heard above the din of the thunder,” I whisper to her, having taken her face in my hands, pressed ‘Pause’ in the middle of her fury-fucking me.

    She’s a silent scream, and then the various mantras begin.

    The room is their ‘Captain’s Suite’. Given to us at the ‘Cabin Boy’s Cabin’ rate. It defines ‘rustically lush’. Heavy, dark wood. Seascape colours. Drapes and blinds and duvets and pillows and shams...

    We’re ensconced in our very own chamber d’amour.

    While the tempest roars outside.

    I’ve pulled up the blinds, pulled back the drapes; the lightning crackles and flashes, the clouds give way, then predominate, the rain cascades in ever-thickening sheets...

    ...and Carrie rides on.

    Bellows on.

    On and on and on and on.

    She’s caught between laughter and exhaustion and ecstasy and gobsmackedness.

    She’s caught amidst all this, and mutely stares at the ceiling.

    “I believe you have a fundamental need to express yourself that you’re simply not currently expressing,” I say in my best Sigmund Freud voice.

    I get a tongue-poke.

    Well, the ceiling does.

    But then she turns her head, and it’s aimed at me.

    “Be still my beating heart,” I sigh.

    And then her phone rings.

    “No!!!” she groans.

    “Probably Cleo,” I suggest, reaching across her lubberly-like, being a real uncouth prick, and grabbing her phone for her.

    She looks at the number. “No...it’s not Cleo...” She clears her throat. “Hey, Mom.”

    Instantly, I’m sliding down her body and I’m between her legs. Mauing.

    She tries to smack me out of the way.

    I smack her back. Hard.

    “Yes, I am, Mom,” she says, frowning down at me. “I’m here with a friend. No, no one- Yes, a ‘new’ friend. Vera described the status perfectly. We’re ‘new’ friends.”

    I grin up at her, over her taut belly, over highly-activated breasts. I grin...and I mau.

    “His name? Callum,” she grunts, just like she’s been punched in the stomach. “Huh? No... I’m just tying my shoes, bending over. An awkward position, that’s all.”

    In goes my tongue.

    Carrie...buckles.

    And so I lap. Like a kitten.

    “Tonight? Dinner?”

    I gnaw.

    “Um...!” Carrie takes hold of my head with her free hand. “I’m not so sure-”

    “I’d love to have dinner with your parents!” I call out, winking at her.

    She wants to be angry. I’m a bright enough lad to realize that. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pokes out her tongue.

    There isn’t much development on Ocracoke. There can’t be; there’s only so much land and it’s pretty much all been taken. Carrie’s parents bought a parcel where a house had burnt down and built fresh.

    “It’s lovely!” I remark as we head up the driveway.

    “It’s pouring out,” is her droll response. “You can’t see anything.”

    “Don’t be a grump.”

    She turns off the engine. “I love my parents.” Pause. “We get along great.” Pause. “But I’ve had some rough patches with relationships. So they don’t want me sailing through any more of those.”

    “So they’re encouraging you to join the convent.”

    “So I’m wary of introducing anyone I’ve met to them. Before...”

    “Before you’re sure you’ve not chosen a bad sloop, route or weather, whatever the appropriate analogy might be.”

    “Look; yes, you’re about their age. But you are clearly not a contemporary.”

    “Clearly. I’m from the Great White North. Where you’re all Southerners.”

    “Here’s a tip: make my mom laugh, and you’re home-free.”

    “OK, I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, squeezing her thigh. “Am I allowed to flirt with her...?”

    How would you feel if you had a thirty year old daughter, and she brought home someone old enough to be...to be you?

    I think if the boyfriend was the typical ‘older man’, then there’d be a certain ‘creepy’ factor. Let’s face it; while it makes for interesting copy in the tabloids, or as a hackneyed movie element, it’s not something most people feel comfortable with.

    It’s a good thing I’m not ‘typical’.

    Their names are Bob and Michele. He’s in the investment business and she’s an artist. He does a lot of his work from a home office, and spends part of the time in Raleigh.

    At first I’m regarded warily by him, especially when he can’t get a bead on me, any way to gain perspective, given our entirely disparate backgrounds. But somehow we manage to find areas of commonality. Such as ice hockey, the Carolina Hurricanes...and a screenplay I wrote a few years back about the 1972 Canada-USSR Summit Series.

    As for her, as for Michele... She is a natural flirt, and when she finds out I’m a writer...and the wine begins flowing...then we’re off to the races.

Of Carrie, II: Ocracoke’s Froth and Foam, Chapter Six

2011-11-21T04:53:00.000-05:00

A hand slips under her top and goes for a breast. “You know...” she mutters, knuckles tenting the cami as she ministers to herself as instructed. “You make me feel my tits are priceless,” she whispers, her words almost lost amid the storm. The constant rattling of the roof by way of sizable raindrops...I’m imagining grapes, believe it or not...is both distracting and comforting. “And I’ve never been made to feel that way.”

    “Valued above rubies,” I tell her, watching her other hand sneak out of sight and work the other breast.

    Pinching. Massaging. Rubbing.

    The words are plain. And they don’t really do justice to what I’m seeing, what’s transpiring. Mostly because they’re cold concepts. On paper, they don’t mean much. It’s only when they’re in play, right in front of you, when you’re watching someone pinching and massaging and rubbing...

    sigh

    Carrie’s attention is stolen. Just for a second. “I’m fogging up the windshield.”

    “Attagirl!”

    She maintains her efforts. “I’m allowed to say that I’d prefer it if you were on my tits, loving them...and not me...?”

    “Sure. A little longing has its own value.”

    Carrie’s expression becomes one of perplexity...of whimsy...of understanding. “You don’t have to do anything to grow longing in me, Mister.”

    “But it’s still nice to witness.”

    “I do,” she says. “I’m longing for you right now.” She coughs her way clear to her next thought. “I’m longing to get to that motel room.”

    “Yeah? You’d like a good lie-down? A nap, maybe...?”

    She sticks out her tongue.

    And I watch as the reaction on her face to the reaction on my face reveals the power of this gesture. “That’ll be ours forever,” I tell her, pulling one of her hands out from under the top, and directing it inside her shorts...the clasp and zipper of which I summarily render inactive. “You poke a tongue out at me, and it’s mnemonic. Or semiotic; I always get those two concepts confused.”

    Carrie giggles, even as she goes for broke down south.

    “You poke your tongue out at me and I’ll be conjouring up a world of references. At the core of that world is the fact that I delight you, that I inspire longing within you...that I take you to a better place.”

    Carrie’s gone.

    Maybe not ‘gone into her orgasm’, but she’s no longer here. She has, in fact, gone to a ‘better place’. I witness it in her closed eyes, in her slightly-ajar mouth, in all ten digits aflurry, in the attendant arms flexed, rigid with effort, in the series of calculated twitches her hips broadcast...and the whimper that suffuses the cab just as surely as the plumes of hot breath that occlude all the glass that surrounds us.

    I’m being ridden.

    Relentlessly.

    As much so as in any major horse race.

    Except that while jockeys use a crop to make the steed go faster, Carrie really only uses her voice.

    Carrie looks about the dining room, taking a tour of the photos lining the walls as I talk to the owner.

    “I apologize ahead of time for this part of the exchange,” I tell him, looking him straight in the eye. “While there aren’t any other guests staying tonight, I do want to make you aware of the voluble nature of my wife while we’re engaged in matrimonial indulgences.”

    He gets it, instantly. And nods his understanding. “My wife and I live in the coach house. You’ll have the entire place to yourself after about eight.”

    “In the meantime,” I add, nodding too.

    “In the meantime, we will, of course, regard any new ‘contributions to the tone’ of our inn to be consistent with the storm’s fury.”

    “Thank you.”

    “You’re welcome.”

Of Carrie, II: Ocracoke’s Froth and Foam, Chapter Five

2011-11-20T04:33:00.000-05:00

    We both have rain gear with us, so we decide to stand on deck.

    It’s just us. Nobody else. (There are only seven other cars.) Nobody but the crew is brave (or stupid) enough to be out. And that suits us just fine.

    “I worry about losing myself in all this,” she says after kissing me.

    “I have no advice.”

    “You’re not worried?”

    “I hate getting my heart broken. But there’s nothing as good as good loving. And loving with you is good loving.”

    She nods faintly, then gazes at the horizon. “I’m glad it’s raining. Nobody can see my tears.”

    “I love your honesty,” I begin. “The fact that you’re real. I sensed that from the moment you spoke. In Norfolk.”

    Carrie says nothing.

    “I love how unaffected you are. Your authenticity. I’ve not seen you in hardly any social situations at all, but I’m willing to bet that people like you. Maybe not adore you, but they surely must like you.”

    Carrie spins slightly, rotating on the railing. “You don’t have to butter me up. I’ll suck your cock later. I promise.”

    “I’ve never ‘buttered you up’. I’ve wanted to, anally...”

    The rest of the trip is all kisses.

    The final stretch is a great chaser. The dunes are high on either side of the two-lane roadway (I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a ‘highway’, even though the speed limit is 55 Mph), so you can’t see the water on either side. It’s like being in a tunnel...except for the sky above. Which right now, is hard to make out, given the ongoing storm.

    It’s one serenity-filled seventeen miles.

    “I keep thinking of us fucking doggie-style.”

    “Really?” I ask.

    “Really.”

    “We’ve never fucked doggie-style.”

    “I know!”

    “So these thoughts... Tell me about them. In detail.”

    “It’s us as animals. It’s all purely animalistic. Wolf-like.”

    “Ergo, lots of Carrie-esque loudness.”

    “Yes. You practically have to knock me out to put a proper end to it.”

    “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”

    “You have no inclinations towards the rough?” she asks.

    “I have inclinations towards a ‘rough’ that’s partner-decreed.”

    “So if I wanted you to be brutal...?”

    “As long as there was a safe-word, and it doesn’t involve scarring or compound-fractures, then I’m game.”

    “Ew.”

    “I love you too. Wife.”

    Approaching Ocracoke, there are access points. Parking lots. But there are also points where you can get to the beach.

    That’s where we’ve driven.

    There’s nobody about. The weather, though not ‘hurricane’ serious, is about as unappealing, as uninviting as can be imagined. So the road has almost nobody on it, the parking lots are empty...as is the beach we drive on.

    And so in the middle of this storm, here we are.

    “Yup,” she says, “here we are.”

    I undo my seatbelt and strain to look about through the windscreen. Then I sit back and stare out at the water, a mass of angry waves, of froth and foam framed between an equally angry sky. “Nice show,” I say. “Wish we’d stopped at the concession stand. I’d love me some popcorn about now...”

    “Shoulda packed a picnic.”

    “Yeah.”

    “We could fool around...”

    “My heart’s always paradildding a little faster around you. And my dick is always waiting for the go-ahead to move towards tumescence.”

    Carrie cackles.

    “You’re laughing at the notion of my erectile tissue being engaged.”

    “I’m laughing at how wonderful you make the most innocuous moments.”

    Reaching down, I release her seatbelt. “Don’t make me stain my shorts,” I tell her.

    “OK,” she replies, still caught up in her laughter. “What would you prefer I do...?”

    “Lean back and make love to yourself.”

    Silence. Silence filled with processing. Thinking. Considering.

    “I thought you wanted to fool around...” she finally says.

    “That was you who suggested that.”

    “Right,” she concedes, rotating to me, bringing a knee up, stretching the other thigh out straight. “You’re right, you’re always right.”

    “Play with your tits,” I say, looking directly at her.

Of Carrie, II: Ocracoke’s Froth and Foam, Chapter Four

2011-11-19T04:49:00.002-05:00

“Do you dance?” she asks as we sip our coffees, our orders being worked on by the kitchen.

    “Not standing up. Why?”

    Carrie reaches down and sits on her hands. “I was trying to come up with an analogy. To how comfortable you seem in restaurants.”

    “Not the posh ones, though. Only the kind that had serviette dispensers at the table. The ones where you pay on the way out. But thanks.” I lean in conspiratorially. “Are you feeling nostalgic for our first date...?”

    “Yes. And a little thrilled at the idea that you’re always this way. In the right restaurant.”

    “I shine at Denny’s.”

    “I’ll keep that in mind.”

    “IHOP has always been good to me.”

    “Right.”

    “And Ruby Tuesday’s and Chili’s and most pizza joints.”

    “Sonics?”

    “It’s just not the same in a vehicle, is it? Except if we’re talking movie drive-ins.”

    “Haven’t been to one in years,” she sighs...and then brightens when she catches on to my subliminal suggestion. “I’d extend our dating for that.”

    “Here you go!” the server announces, placing our meals before us. “Two breakfast specials. Can I get y’all anything else? More coffee?”

    “Please.”

    “Yes, please.”

    Carrie digs in before the woman’s left our sight. “So honeymoon, huh...?”

    “I did tell you how much of a romantic I am.”

    She’s grinning as she chews her toast. “I’m definitely gettin’ lucky tonight!”

    “What are you hankerin’ for, Darlin’?” I ask, the server having returned. “What will be your cravin’? How do you want to spend our connubial time? Sweetums...?”

    “Shamelessly devoted,” Carrie says to the server’s delight. “I hit the jackpot!”

    “I’d fuck you right here, on this very table,” I mutter, chomping on my bacon. “I’d get you roaring so loud that we’d clear the restaurant. They’d all run screaming into the parking lot. Probably call the authorities.”

    Carrie is all blush.

    “Have I even seen you blush since we met?”

    “I’ll have you know that I am in a constant state of blush,” she says, fanning her face with the ketchup. “You sir, are incorrigible.”

    “I thought you said that men such as myself were...what was that word you used...priceless.”

    “I hate you,” she says, head down and all business. All eating business.

    “You love me. As your parents will clearly and unquestionably see to be true.”

    Down go her utensils; the clanging is startling even to customers three tables away. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

    “You have not. Besides; you need to keep up your strength. I intend on taking you en route.”

    “Do not!”

    “Do so. Eat up.”

    Duck. Colington. Nags Head. Bodie Island. Roanoke Island. Pea Island. Rodanthe. Salvo. Avon. Cape Hatteras. Hatteras and the ferry.

    We sit in the truck, in line for the boat. It’s pelting down rain, making a timpani on the roof. With the wipers on ‘pulse’, we’re quite hypnotized.

    “You’re as good as your word.”

    “I am,” I reply.

    “You took me.”

    “I did.”

    “Right here in the truck.”

    “Yup.”

    “Those glorious fingers of yours.”

    “They’re inspired.”

    “I came.”

    “I noticed.”

    Silence.

    “You’re spoiling me.”

    “You know, Carrie...”

    “Uh-oh!” she laughs. “Maybe we should change topics.”

    “On another timeline, you walked away from me. Carried on after a brief conversation. Bag and cell phone in hand, you kept walking.”

    Carrie turns to me. “That is a depressing thought.”

    “I’m just sayin’.”

    “Saying what?”

    “I’m sayin’ that nothing is frivolous. I love that you respond to me in the way you do. I love that we’ve gone to the places we’ve gone to in every aspect of ‘this’. Including sex, obviously.”

    “Obviously. But...?”

    “No ‘but’. I’m just sayin’...”

    “Gotcha.” Pause. “And thanks.”

    Silence.

    “Do you think it might help if I mentioned how ‘well’ we get along sexually? To your parents?”

    “I think we should show them.”

    She can’t keep her laughter inside for very long. “I’m calling Vera! She’ll love this!”

    And so as we wait for the ferry in the parking lot with the church-like building, Carrie calls her sister and shares this piece of ridiculousness, and Vera does love it, she cackles just as loudly, and even with the storm lashing about, even with this not being a good day for being on a ferry, I feel like I’m in precisely the right place at the right time with the right woman.